#I have been blessed by the glorious three word phrase

[squidshop-art]

HEAVY TF2 TUMMY ‼️‼️‼️

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[hephaestiions]

'24 retrospective

thank you, @kamaela & @hollyhawthorn for the tag on ruminations from 2024, we're going to pretend i'm not a whole week late to it.

sometime in— march?— i got high and thought— wouldn't it be fantastic if draco and harry did that too? started writing what became almost 7k words of porn with feelings about harry being taken care of, which marked a return to ao3 and my first fic since 2021. win! i posted some shorter, quicker stuff to tumblr, of which i particularly enjoyed writing this auror partners transfer request, about harry, lettuce & embroidery yarn, and grace.

it's been a year of figuring out style & character, what works, what doesn't, what holds weight & water, slips, comes back. which is mostly to say it's been a year of drafts, writing & scrapping, letting things marinate in docs, coming up with several thousand wips & resisting the urge to take down older fics and repost them in a style i agree with more now.

2024 was also the year of getting into reccing, which i've enjoyed far, far more than i expected. my three author reclists for plor, wolf & tacky were my favourite to do, i loved the immersive invite of them. given my need to devour back catalogues of every author i adore, i'm hoping to continue these; we are well and truly blessed with enough writers here to keep me going for a lifetime.

writing (mostly) individual recs for hprecfest was also absolutely glorious. i have so much to say about works that stick with me, and saying it all to get others to go delight in them was brilliantly fulfilling. the process made me write my own love letters to reccing & reccers & the light they are in fandom, which may be my own most cherished post. i don't always have the bandwidth to write or read new stuff, but showing love like this keeps me involved, immersed, and importantly, very happy.

i've read a lot this year & listing everything will unfortunately have us cataloguing the colours of the sky. instead, i'm going to make a list of what i consider my priority tbr of fics & authors, people & works i wanted to get around to this year, couldn't, want to gorge myself on soon.

@garagepaperback wrote 300k words in 9 works this year, and i need to read every one as soon as possible. their style demands savouring & i've saved up so much garagefic for when i have the time to do them justice. @eleadore writes such a deliciously abrasive, petulant drarry dynamic; i'm really, really looking forward to being in A Mood to cut my teeth on their diamonds. (additional shoutout to the remaining reads these two's pile with @yiiiiiiiikes25, reserved for when i need a good smut fix). i read @kamaela's got me started earlier in the year, fell in love with their sharp characters & sharper writing & now everything else they've written, but especially mirror, me is up, up there in needing to be read asap. everything i've read by @sleepstxtic has been fantastic, fantastic, but rush was especially spectacular & i am foaming at the mouth to get to the other two sports fics in the series.

@dodgerkedavra's clear, warm light looks absolutely epic, can't wait to sink my teeth into it (and everything else from dodger's catalogue i haven't read yet). @epitomereally's LA, who am i to love you? has some fantastic tags, a fascinating summary & been on my mfl for an age. this is also maybe-perhaps-potentially the year to work through @mintawasalreadytaken's tit for tat which sits at almost 400k & promises my favourite things (angst & porn), but even if not, it is the year to read the rest of minta's catalogue that i haven't gotten to yet.

& finally, i'm bad at wips, but i'm so very, very excited for @tackytigerfic's first watch of night to finish posting so i can swim around in it.

this is a v small sampling of everything i hope to read this year, i've left out so many wonderful, wonderful authors whom i will end up loving. the goal is to read slower, read steadier, take my time with craft & phrasing, work through catalogues i admire & leave myself space to appreciate with care & specificity.

in the other life of odds and ends and grad school and employment, it was a weird year, kind of a— nothing year? scales weren't tipped too far in either direction, which is different, which demands recalibration, which has left me time & energy in measures i usually don't have. dawn has broken over this fresh swivel around the sun and i'm allowing myself some slivers of tentative, brittle hope. it's new, and i'm putting stock in that being a good thing.

paging everyone i've mentioned above to tell me what you're hoping to do more of in 2025 (fandom/otherwise) if you'd like! cheerleading all of you from here <3

[khutbahs]

Question

In Eid prayer for Eid al-Adha, I hear people repeat Takbeer (saying "Allah Akbar" in Arabic) the following phrases:

Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, laa ilaaha ill-Allaah, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, wa Lillaahi’l-hamd. Allaah akbar kabeera, walhamdulillaah katheera, wasubhan Allaahi bukratan waaseela, Laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wahdahu fulfilled his promise wa nasara ‘abdah wa a'az jundah wa hazama al-ahzaaba wahdah Laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wa la na'budu ila Iyah mukhliseena lahu’l-deena wa law kariha’l-kaafiroon). They repeat this after each prayer (from the daily 5 prayers), is that true? If wrong, what is the correct phrases to be repeated instead?.

Answer

Praise be to Allaah.

With regard to the format of takbeer: “Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allahu akbar laa ilaaha ill-Allaah, wa Allaahu akbar, Allaah akbar, wa Lillaah il-hamd (Allaah is Most Great, Allaah is most Great, Allah is most Great there is no god but Allaah, Allaah is Most great, Allaah is most great, and to Allaah be praise),” this is proven from Ibn Mas‘ood (may Allah be pleased with him) and others of the early generation, whether the first takbeer is said twice or three times.

See al-Musannaf by Abu Shaybah, 2/165-168; Irwa’ al-Ghaleel, 3/125

With regard to the format of takbeer, “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela… (There is no god but Allaah, Allaah is most Great, Allaah is most Great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day…),” Imam al-Shaafa‘i (may Allah have mercy on him) said:

If he adds to that and says: “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela, Allahu akbar wa la na‘budu illa Allah mukhliseena lahu al-deena wa law kariha al-kaafiroon, la ilaaha ill-Allah wahdah, sadaqa wa‘dah wa nasara ‘abdah wa hazama al-ahzaaba wahdah, laa ilaaha ill-Allah wa Allahu akbar (Allaah is most Great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day. Allah is most Great and we worship none but Allah, and we make our worship purely for Him (alone) however much the disbelievers may hate that. There is no god but Allah alone; He fulfilled His promise and granted victory to His slave and defeated the Confederates alone. There is no God but Allah and Allah is most Great),” then he has done well. End quote.

Al-Umm, 1/241

Abu Ishaaq al-Shiraazi said in al-Muhadhdhab (1/121):

Because the Prophet (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) said that atop al-Safa. End quote.

The matter is broad in scope, because the command is to say takbeer in general, and the Messenger (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) did not single out any particular format of takbeeraat. Allah, may He be exalted, says (interpretation of the meaning):

“and that you must magnify Allâh [i.e. to say Takbîr (Allâhu-Akbar; Allâh is the Most Great) for having guided you”

[al-Baqarah 2:185].

So one may follow the Sunnah by saying any format.

Al-San‘aani (may Allah have mercy on him) said: In al-Sharh there are many formats narrated from a number of imams, which indicates that the matter is broad in scope and the general wording of the verse indicates that. End quote.

Subul al-Salaam, 2/72

Ibn Habeeb said: The dearest to me is to say: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, la ilaaha ill-Allah wa Allahu akbar, wa Lillahi al-hamd ‘ala ma hadaana, Allahumma aj‘alna laka min al-shaakireen (Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great, there is no god but Allah and Allah is most Great; praise be to Allah for having guided us; O Allah, make us among those who give thanks to You).

The format preferred by Yazeed was: “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela, wa la hawla wa la quwwata illa Billaah (Allaah is most great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day, and there is no power and no strength except with Allah).” And he said: Whatever you add or subtract, or whatever else you say, there is nothing wrong with it. End quote.

‘Aqd al-Jawaahir al-Thameenah, 3/242

Sahnoon said: I said to Ibn al-Qaasim: Did Maalik mention any particular takbeer to you? He said: No. He said: Maalik did not say anything specific concerning these matters. End quote.

Al-Mudawwanah, 1/245

Imam Ahmad said: It is broad in scope. Ibn al-‘Arabi said: Our scholars favoured the view that takbeer is general in scope, which is the apparent meaning of the Qur’aan, and I am inclined to favour this view.

al-Jaami‘ li Ahkaam al-Qur’aan, 2/307

Forms of takbeer for the two Eids that are proven from the salaf:

“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar wa Lillahi al-hamd, Allahu akbar wa ajall, Allahu akbar ‘ala ma hadaana (Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great and to Allah be praise; Allah is most Great and most Glorious, Allah is most Great,as He has guided us).”

Narrated by al-Bayhaqi, 3/315, from Ibn ‘Abbaas (may Allah be pleased with him); classed as saheeh by al-Albaani in Irwa’ al-Ghaleel, 3/126

Ibn Hajar said: With regard to the format of the takbeer, the most saheeh that has been narrated concerning it is that which was narrated by ‘Abd al-Razzaaq with a saheeh isnaad from Salmaan who said: “Proclaim Allah’s greatness: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbaru kabeeran.

Fath al-Baari, 2/462

Adhering to what was narrated from the Sahaabah concerning that is more appropriate.

And Allah knows best.

Eid Takbeer from Makkah

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDfinOSmBWs

[mihanada]

Heaven Official’s Blessing Liveblog

As promised, a liveblog of Heaven Official’s Blessing! I am treating this as my first read through past Chapter 21. I do know a lot of the major plot lines, but I will try my best to keep any spoilers out of the entire thing since this cannot be considered a re-read.

This novel is long, so it may be the case that I liveblog more than one chapter at a time in the future!

Chapter 1: Heaven Official’s Blessing

I really, truly think the first chapter is both unnecessarily dense and suitable for the type of story this grand tale will turn out to be. The scope of the first chapter is huge and treated like both a fairytale and a historical account, which is TGCF in a nutshell. It may suit the story to come, but it also means that I dropped this novel twice without making it past the first chapter. It’s worse than Scum Villain because it isn’t confusing really: it’s somewhat of a dry read. A lot happens that I knew I wouldn’t remember if and when it became relevant again, which makes this novel good to reread, but hard to pick up.

[“I want to save the common folks!”]

A kind-hearted and earnest crown prince may not be my favorite main character archetype, but it has truly been so long since I’ve seen it in western fantasy (not to say there still aren’t novels with this character archetype, but none of the ones I’ve read or seen circulating have one as the MC) that I am much more open to seeing one now. Although the first section of this chapter is a glowing review of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, the “famous laughing stock” of the three realms sets you up to say “alright, now how is this about to all go horribly wrong”, so there’s that.

Actually, MXTX’s other two novels had a similar thing going on. The first chapter already reveals, to some extent, that the main character has made mistakes in his life and a good part of the story is seeing the nature of those mistakes. I think this is what made me intrigued enough to continue reading her works, or at least go back to it in TGCF’s case.

So, we have a naive and earnest crown prince and the next section relates a story of him performing a ritual to earn good luck for the country. Considering the ancient setting and the xianxia setting, you can understand why the officials flip out when their crown prince derps off to save a child in the middle of it. I wonder if someone dying in the middle of such a ceremony wouldn’t also be ominous? In their perspective perhaps it’s not as bad a thing, but to our crown prince, this isn’t a question at all.

Someone was in trouble, so naturally he should save that child if it’s in his power to do so.

The first interesting point is his stubbornness. Unwilling to commit himself to something untrue (apologizing for saving a child when he isn’t sorry at all), he doesn’t even think of the consequences if the heavens decide to smite him. The officials even tell him that he doesn’t have to fully commit to the apology, just a “gesture” will suffice. Although this makes it seem like the apology really isn’t a big deal, the responsible thing to do as the next ruler of the country would be to just face the wall for a bit and leave it at that - but it’s against his principles, so he won’t.

Even if we weren’t told his age, it’s easy to guess by his words: [“How could the heavens fault me because I did the right thing? Then the heavens would be the ones who are in the wrong. Why should the people who are right apologize to the ones who are wrong?”]

There are so many characters in this novel that it becomes extra important for the dialogue to carry details like this - which not all writers are good at.

[He had never encountered anything he wasn’t able to accomplish, and he had also never met anyone who didn’t love him. He was always right, and he was the heart of the world.] And there is the root of the problem. But I might get back to this later, or else my inner psychology nerd will come out.

(Side note: Out of MXTX’s three MCs, it’s Xie Lian and Wei Wuxian who don’t believe in saving face - and it brings them all sorts of external troubles from society. On the flip side, Shen Qingqiu is so careful about maintaining his image that his personal relationships get neglected and misunderstandings form, which then leads to a good chunk of society willing to shoot him down.)

Next story is a ghost terrorizing a bridge - great symbolism there, and also a trial for our crown prince.

[“This child’s future is limitless, impossible to measure.”] AND YET IT IS ALL GOING TO GO SO WRONG.

[The things he wanted, there was nothing he could not obtain. The things he wanted to do, there was nothing that was impossible for him to accomplish. And when he wanted to ascend into godhood, he really ascended into godhood at age seventeen.] Again, significant to understand his mentality as a 17-year-old. Once you’ve ascended to godhood, a feat some cannot accomplish even after devoting their lives to it, truly the word impossible should not even exist...right?

[...heaven’s godly officials could not meddle according to their wishes. Unless it was a result of demons and ghouls overstepping or violating their boundaries, what happened must be allowed to happen.] Interesting and very important rules. Practical, too. The duties, limitations, and roles that heavenly officials play as gods to the mortal realm are actually quite intriguing, but I think it’ll take a while for it all to reveal itself. For now, it’s removing themselves from two important duties they had in life - loyalty and devotion to one’s country and ancestors/relatives.

And in this section, we read about how it all went wrong - meddling in the war didn’t save his country, and the people ended up resenting him.

[From then on, a martial god known for protection and peace faded away, and a demonic god who attracted disasters was born. 

When people said you were a god, then you were a god. If they said you were shit, then you were shit. Whatever the people said you were, that was what you became.] 

MXTX likes to write about society, particularly these aspects of society. It bears keeping in mind as we progress through the story. It’s all about perspective.

[“Body in the abyss, but heart in paradise.”

Because the one who personally said the phrase had already proved that when his body was in the abyss, his heart was not in paradise.] 

I’ll come back to these lines at some point. But, yeah. A person who has never failed before in his life finally does so, and it’s possibly the most catastrophic of consequences. Looking back at those naive words, though they can be seen as profound, I can also see how they’re somewhat pretentious and at one’s absolute lowest, may seem impossible to live up to.

[Now that he was banished twice, would he become a demon and retaliate by abusing the common people?] Luckily for heaven and earth, our MC did not go down that route. And everyone kept a close eye on him for a while after that second ascension and banishment, which - kinda creepy, ok. Then they lost track of him because he obviously wasn’t about to wreak glorious havoc against them again, so why bother?

And, finally, we come to the last section and his final ascension! This is why I gave up twice before finally powering through. This whole chapter is basically a history book and it was difficult to get through before knowing anything about the characters, or why the reader should care. But, well, I made it. Eventually. And I’m excited to get past Chapter 21 at last, lol.

(masterpost)

onward →

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

A View To A Winchester (Part 1)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. No idea how long it will be, but I’ve got time on my hands. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle. I’m thinking it will go the fluffy route, with some angst, and maybe some smut down the line. Not sure yet.

Section Word Count:  3,755

Section Warnings: mild language

~~~~~

The view from Julie’s home office had always provided some solace. A calm had washed over her the very first time she stared at it months ago. She’d been alone searching for a new place to move all of her stuff into as soon as possible. Well, not alone if you counted the perky real estate agent hovering in the doorway. Back then, she had no idea what her next step would be. But this little view of nothing special hit the pause button as all the pieces of her life crumbled out of her control. The view had been a distraction amidst the decisions and paperwork and phone calls. Everything that came along with severing the life she had built with the man she’d married.

She could hear her spry sixty-six year old mother passing the vacuum downstairs in the living room. Again. For the second time that day. Bless her sanitation compulsion. It’s only going to get worse now that she had to leave her house for this fumigation fiasco… will never hear the end of how she always knew keeping a clean house was important. Julie sighed. It will keep her from mentioning Steve for a while. That’s a positive.

She’d started her work project that Saturday morning at the PC atop the corner desk. A wall slathered in a turf green color with the precision of a five year old had been her view past that computer screen. Wish I’d had time and money to paint the whole house before moving in.

The uncomfortable office chair and the ache in her lower back had shifted Julie’s location by hour four of her remote work day. She gave in to try and subdue the pain, pulled out her laptop and sank into the sofa bed. The discount furniture had proved remarkably comfy. It was also positioned at a perfect height under the two side by side windows. The view looking out over her small backyard was always filled with entertaining items.

It was a standard middle class development. No HOA in this joint. Her neighbors to the left had perfected the art of hoarding chaos in their backyard. Every inch was filled with something either garden or tool related or well past its usefulness. Julie had a quaint covered patio right next to their property line. Mom, the one with the green thumb and outdoor enthusiasm, had sat under it more than Julie had over the past few days. Nature is better experienced behind a pane of glass. I’m too sweet for those mosquitoes.

A beautiful dagwood tree skirted the other fence line toward the far edge of her property. It’s branches brushed over the detached carport capping off the incline from the long driveway. This divorcee didn’t have it in her budget for a two car garage. But, she did like the fact that her car wasn’t the first thing a guest saw in front of the house when they drove down the road to visit. The quaint cape cod had a simple charm to it, with another small dagwood by the porch.

You should have taken Steve for everything he was worth. Oh, her mom’s never requested, yet always given, opinion when it came to her ex. If only she did have some of that superstitious Italian ability to curse others. Steve’s dick would have fallen off a long time ago. 

Nope, this view had been just enough for Julie when she’d moved in three months ago. After the divorce had become final. And then, last week, somehow, she’d managed to convince her dead-set-in-her-ways mom to leave her row home in the city and stay with her, instead of at a hotel during the necessary remediation. 

You try and talk an old school Italian into leaving their home unattended. Try, I dare you. 

Julie’s younger brother, Joseph, was on the west coast with his wife and two sons. There was no way, as much as her mother worshipped the ground her son walked on, that Joey would be able to come and rescue Mamma Mia for this one. Knowing their mother was with Julie made little brother feel better. He’d uttered that phrase over a video call, his youngest boy squirming in his lap and grabbing for the screen. They both wouldn’t be alone for a little while, he added, which cut Julie in a way that she was sure he hadn’t intended. It’ll keep Ma busy, Jule-Jule, having you to fuss over. Like she used to do when we were kids. 

As she tapped with an absentminded rhythm on the down arrow key, trying to focus on the spreadsheet, she couldn’t help but steal glances at the patch of unoccupied concrete driveway in the other neighbor’s yard. The one neighbor she’d only seen on two occasions. But, both times, he had been a glorious sight to behold. The man she’d learned was called Dean Winchester.

The first time she’d spotted him, Julie had been outside late one evening, only a couple days after moving in. Her cleaning of the backyard had gone better than expected that afternoon. Even a run in with a spider had not scared her inside. Normally, she would have abandoned any items and cleaning supplies in her wake of fright. That was not an option. Cause I don’t have anyone around to kill them. She faced the one-inch eight legged fiend like a trooper, brushing it into the grass. 

The finishing touch of her busy day had been the placement of two wicker chairs and a tiny table in the covered patio’s alcove. Spring had not officially arrived yet, but she’d risk putting the outdoor furniture where it belonged. Her frame sank into one of the chairs with a wine cooler in hand, her aching feet propped up in the seat of the other. She tugged the cardigan sweater closed at the slight chill in the air.

Her chatty neighbor Wes, the one with the hoarding problem, had talked her ear off for a good half hour. She basked in her accomplishment as the sun set and she was talked more at than to. He seemed quite content speaking over her as she attempted a conversation. Not in an overbearing or conceited way. It was reminiscent of an excited child who couldn’t wait to get all the details out about their amazing story. His partner, Samuel, would try to steer Wes back and remind him to wait his turn in the most patient of ways. Julie had no energy left to struggle and simply listened. It was what she was good at, after all. 

Julie quickly surmised the amount of alcohol they imbibed could be part of the reason they got along so well. They were night and day. Wes worked in construction, had a scruffy stark blonde beard that matched the ponytail, and lived in faded jeans and a Phish t-shirt. Samuel was a retired Executive Director and dressed like one of those distinguished older gentlemen in a Land’s End catalog.

The couple had eventually turned in, wishing her a good night. Julie sat, alone, in the dark. She was too tired to get up. Her lids were getting heavy. A loud rumble from a vehicle had stirred her awake. She cursed at falling asleep, outside, leaving herself vulnerable in a new place. The open wine cooler bottle hung in her hand at a precarious angle. She placed it atop the table and prepared to lift her ass out of the now uncomfortable seat. Then, she spotted headlights creeping up part of the driveway she could see past the other neighbor’s house. There was a good 30 feet of grass between her chain link fence and the neighbor’s drive. 

A motion sensor light kicked on. The massive front of a vintage black car came into view. It pulled in slow and cautious like a boat approaching a pier. The engine ticked off and grunted at the journey’s end. Then the driver’s door swung open. And, in the darkness, under the covered patio, Julie could feel her mouth start to dry up at the sight of the man who’d been behind the wheel.

She couldn’t explain the reaction, even thinking about it now. But, there’d been something overwhelmingly masculine about the way that figure eased out of the car. The presence triggered her senses into overdrive. There was no flight or fight response. All freeze on her end.

Work boots landed on the concrete in a secure and smooth motion one after the other. Her ears tuned into the thud of his soles, then the shift of toe boots sliding against gravel. The fluorescent light played with the shadows and cut a chiseled physique out of the contrast. The buzzing sound from the bulbs over him intensified in her ears. Like he was generating energy. The tingling sound crested in waves in her direction. She licked her lips. A metallic, coppery flavor laced the air. The taste reminded her of when she had accidently touched a live wire and received a mild shock.  

She dared to tilt her head. Her black rimmed bifocal prescription glasses got a clearer image of this man. He dipped back into the car to pull out a duffel bag and tossed it by his feet. He wore dark jeans draped over muscled thighs and a pair of bow legs. She made out all those details thanks to the light shining down and carving out a pronounced oval between those legs. A plaid shirt fitted and hugged a set of broad shoulders. The hem of the shirt hung in the perfect spot above… well, maybe that was when her mouth had completely dried up. That man had an ass so perfect, so curvy, she’d never seen a male backside look that good in denim.

My mind has to be playing tricks on me. She shook her head to rid her brain of the fuzziness. Or, that wine cooler was a lot stronger than I expected. There’s no way the rest of him is that… this... perfect.

And, then, he turned into the light, and gave her a glimpse of his face. And proved her goddamn wrong.

He bent down to grab the bag off the ground and swung the door shut, producing a squeak. But, the squeak could have been one of disbelief coming from her mouth. A spiky, short cut of hair topped his head. The profile of this man had sharp angles in all the right areas. Dips and swells in every other spot of his face brought to mind those old Guess jeans ads Julie had seen in countless magazines growing up. She’d wished the moon and stars wiped away in that moment and willed the sun to rise instead. She wanted to see every inch of him and take in all that was reserved for the shadows.

And as quick as that, he was gone, with a confident posture and matching swagger. He disappeared down the driveway. He must have gone into the front door of his tiny house out of view. A couple seconds went by and then a light filled one of the small square windows. But, she saw no movement. Then another window snapped on in illumination. This one was situated on the wall of the house closer to her property. But, still nothing. No sign of him, not even a passing shadow. Both lights eventually turned off. Back in the dark, Julie gasped for the air she’d been denying herself as she spied on this other neighbor. She scurried back in the house like a mouse.

The wheels of the unplugged vacuum cleaner rolled along the hardwood in the first story directly below and rolled her out of the recollection. Mom was moving to another room to continue cleaning. Little to no insulation in the walls and the small square footage made everything way too easy to hear in this house. Her mother’s snores in the first floor bedroom last night had woken her up. She frowned, realizing she could no longer watch the occasional soft porn in her bedroom without the use of headphones. She was fifteen all over again.

Not that I’ve needed much in terms of arousing material since my other neighbor. Dean.

The man had no routine to speak of that she could discern. The car might be parked in the driveway for a week or two, then gone for one week. Then back for only a day to be gone again. For a month after that first sighting, the only sign of him being home had been the car in the driveway. Her voyeuristic tendencies shifted into high gear. She found the views from her office window and the sliding glass door leading out to her yard even more interesting now.

She resorted to asking Wes about the neighbor when the car had disappeared again for a few days. Wes’ eyes lit up in obvious appreciation at the question that bright Saturday morning. “Oh, you mean Dean? Dean Winchester. Been around for a couple years. Keeps to himself... and his yard mowed in the summer, when he’s around. Quiet. Well, except for his radio when he’s working on the Impala. Thank God he’s got good taste in music.”

“Impala?”

“His car, sweetie.” Samuel had snuck up behind Wes and clarified.

“Oh.” Julie did not know enough about cars to have identified the model. She discerned the basics. It was black and bulging and could batter ram her compact into an accordion if they’d ever gotten into a crash.

“It’s a beauty. His pride and joy.” Wes tilted his beer over toward Dean’s driveway. “I got to look under the hood of her once. I offered to help, but…”

“He’s got a clear indication of how good you are with cars, Wes.” Samuel raised an eyebrow and pointed to the rusty, old truck behind them.

“My financial ability doesn’t have anything to do with my knowledge and skills in car repair,” Wes huffed.

“I could make a counter argument, but I’m hungry and really want you to cook tonight.” Samuel tapped Wes’s shoulder.

“What does he do for a living?” Julie asked.

“He can’t really talk about it.” Wes nodded in an exaggerated manner.

Julie could feel her mouth turn down in disappointment. “Why not?”

“He’s hinted it’s government related. Possibly Homeland Security.” Samuel added.

“Oh. Wow.” The hours kind of made sense. But, the tiny house in this mediocre neighborhood didn’t line up with the salary that went along with a job like that. She kept the opinion to herself. As she usually did with most things.

That afternoon, Julie had gotten a bug up her ass to clean the second floor. Her mom would be coming to visit the next day. The last thing she wanted to see her do was pull out the mop and bucket. I’ll have to lock up all my cleaning products. Of course, mom’s sneaky little self will probably pack up her own arsenal of weapons in her car. 

After she’d finished with her bedroom an hour later, she’d attacked her office. The windows, inside and out, had been begging for a proper wipe down. She raised the roman shades left by the previous owners to the very top of the sill, coughed at the dust, and then lifted one of the windows up enough to tilt it into the room. The pane rested against the sofa back. Julie started to clean the exterior.

A breeze pushed in through the screen while she worked. It forced her to time the spraying of cleaner fluid so she didn’t end up with chemicals in her face. When things settled, she bent into the task and wiped. Outside, an angry engine rumbled off to the right. She knew that sound. She’d only heard it once before, but it had ingrained itself into her brain. She licked her lips, like Pavlov’s dog. Her mouth curled into a smile now that she could attach a name to the other neighbor. Dean’s home. Her heart sped up.

Daylight. Moment of truth. The rag dropped from her hand. She looked around for the binoculars. They waited on the sofa’s side table, having been fished out of storage after that first night she’d seen him. Her fingers tugged the window screen up. An unpleasant squeak from the vinyl rubbing together clawed at her inner ear. She hunched down and sat on the sofa, barely tipping her head up over the bottom window sill. Her hand snuck to her left and snatched the binoculars. 

She could only imagine how ridiculous she looked at that moment. Yep, you’ve brought out the voyeur in me, Dean. Or, should I call you Mr. Winchester, until we’ve been properly introduced? Please, God. If you’re going to throw me a bone after all this shit with Steve, let this man be a hunky neighbor truly worthy to have spent this much time obsessing over.

She rested the binoculars on the bridge of her nose and tried to focus through the magnified lenses. Sparkling wheel rims, up close and personal, edged into the scene, along with the rest of the car. The anticipation of how much more of Mr. Winchester she might be able to see had her movements searching and tracking in a frantic pace. The binoculars landed on the driver’s side window. Only seeing the outside reflection made her heart drop. The engine ticked off. Then, the door opened.

Showtime.

“You wanted me to check in, Sammy. For the third time, I’m fine.” The clarity of the voice wafting up to her perch from the second story made her gasp. Could I be this lucky? It’s like I’m in the perfect sound traveling angle possible.

After the shock of the eavesdropping accessibility died down, she gasped for a second time when she saw Dean emerge from the car.

Holy shit.

Dean glanced around the yard, checked his surroundings and stilled. He leaned on the side of the car and stared into her yard. Julie guessed jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt might be his attire of choice. But, good God. Hunky didn’t do him justice. He was fucking gorgeous. Rough, scruffy, a bit aged. Yet, he was also perfect model material with a boyish hint underneath. He had a well proportioned nose, dimpled chin, and a very nice set of lips with just the right amount of pout. His brown hair had a combo of red and golden highlights in the sunshine. The only thing she couldn’t make out well enough from the distance was his eye color.

“Things are good. Just got back home from a hunting trip. Yeah, I’ve been tracking the news. Run of the mill stuff. Happy days are here again.”

And, the voice. Holy shit. It was deep, with bass, and reverberated like his car’s engine in her ears. 

“How’s things out west?” He nodded, apparently listening to a long explanation. “Eileen?” Another nod, then his eyes widened. “Really? Congrats on knocking her up, little brother. Finally. Only been with her for two years. ‘Bout time.” He smirked. The grin faded into a serious, tight expression. His jaw clenched and Julie heard a moan leave her lips. “Nah. There’s no reason for me to head your way. I’m fine. Someone’s gotta man the east coast. Most of our headaches popped up here in Delaware years back, remember?” He tilted his head from side to side and rolled his eyes. “Well, you never know. Better I stay here. Just in case. Listen, catch up’s been great.” He pinched his nose. “I’m beat. Just want to sleep for a week. Yeah. Will do. You too, Sammy.” 

He propelled himself off the side of the car and reached in to pull the same duffel bag. The car door squeaked shut. And, he was gone again. Julie had gotten herself together after a minute or so and went about the window cleaning. The job was not as thorough as she had planned. A distracted focus had her staring at the Impala and Dean’s house for the majority of her time at the window. 

And, maybe he had slept for an entire week after that. The car didn’t move. When she’d leave for work in the mornings she’d take her time by the sliding door to lock up. Easing down the concrete path toward the carport at a languid pace some days. Careful lawn inspection or a trip to check on the patio might fill a minute or so on others. With always the glances up in Dean’s general direction. 

But the car would be there in the mornings and when she arrived from work for a few more weeks after that. Then, the erratic disappearances began again. The fun game she was playing of hide and seek with someone not even in on the diversion only turned into disheartening disappointment. He had the hide part down.

“Giulia?”

Mom called up to her from the stairwell and the memory escaped.

“Yeah?”

“Want lunch?”

“I’m fine.” She readjusted on the couch.

“I’m going to make some pasta fagioli, then, for dinner later. Going to go sit out on the patio.”

“Sounds good.” Mom enjoyed talking to Wes and Samuel. Julie thought her mother didn’t understand much of what Wes said when he’d had one too many beers in him, which was pretty much all the time. But, she laughed a lot. It was more about the company lately.

Her mother muttered something in Italian. “Don’t work all day! It’s the weekend.” Julie didn’t bother to respond. The sliding door whooshed open and then rolled shut. Her mind wandered back to Dean. He’d been gone for three weeks at her daily tick count. Maybe he really does have a secret government job. But, what the hell popped up in Delaware years back? Delaware never made the news on a national level. Well, except for Wilmington being the murder capital of the United States a few years ago. He couldn’t have meant that, could he? Maybe he’s undercover, living just outside the biggest city in the state in good ol’ Pike Creek? She shook her head. Dean had become a distraction and now a point of worry for her. And, she hadn’t even met the man.

She huffed, then typed an email, wrapping up her extra work on the weekend. “Time to get out of these pajamas and take a shower,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

Part 2

Series Page

[rdwyns]

          hey y’all, it’s kit again ! swapping jeyne out for anya, my muse from the last iteration of warofcrowns but with some obvious edits ! if you remember her from the old version, fair warning, she’s gotten significantly worse. her intro is still absurdly, ridiculously long, i am well aware and will not apologize. but if you do manage to read the whole thing you have my eternal gratitude & admiration ! i’d also really, really love plenty of plots and connections for her so if you want to plot, here’s how: like this post if you don’t mind me messaging you, or get a head start and shoot me a message either on IMs or on discord !

⤷ ( kit. cet. 22. she / her. violence against children. ) the courts offer bread and salt to anya caron née redwyne of house caron. many say the twenty-five year old ruling lady of nightsong is known to be poised and insightful, though ill tongues whisper that she is insecure and volatile. when her name is uttered, one is reminded of a faint light in a sea of fog, sweet fruit souring into wine, & a dark stain spreading over silk. may she be blessed and protected in this war of crowns.

        tw - discussions or mentions of alcoholism, childbirth & pregnancy, domestic abuse & neglect, suicide by drowning, food & disordered eating, forced marriage, mental & physical illness, misogyny. ( yeah it’s a lot, don’t mind me. )

basics.

name. anya caron née redwyne. nicknames. age. twenty-five. traits.      + educated, reverent, insightful, poised, curious, resourceful, sentimental.      - guarded, resentful, volatile, insecure, transgressive, dependent. titles. ruling lady of nightsong. loyalty. house targaryen.

family.

desmond redwyne, ruling lord of the arbor. ( father ) viola redwyne née ???, ruling lady of the arbor. ( mother , deceased ) ??? redwyne, heir to the arbor. ( half-brother ) ??? ??? née redwyne, lady of the arbor. ( half-sister )

??? caron, ruling lord of nightsong. ( husband ) amerei caron, lady of nightsong ( sister-in-law )

pre - history ; house & parents .

the redwynes were always military men. had to be, really, being island people, more isolated and often more endangered than their mainland counterparts. really, there was nothing quite so loved as war, except perhaps wine.

an old, proud house, the redwynes and their fleet have fought for targaryen kings for centuries — they stood by aegon in the dance of the dragons, stood by jon & daenerys against cersei lannister, and even stood by maegos against the dornish and northern rebellions.

lord desmond redwyne took his father’s seat in the reign of king aeron. in a prosperous and peaceful time, men drunk on dreams of a glorious war grow restless — so he hunted, and whored, and drank, and none of it so much as touched his reputation. no, lord redwyne was an honorable man, a true servant of the realm, an example to many.

lady viola redwyne might have said otherwise, had anyone asked her. prone to bouts of melancholy, often disagreeable, and with a reputation for refusing suitors, she might have even succeeded had she not been so beautiful. lord redwyne must have her, and her father could not refuse.

his second wife, fifteen years his junior, and unhappy with the match, she could not love him, nor his other children, nor the arbor. a lack of love in such close quarters sours into hate over time, like bad wine. one of her few reliefs was that he already had an heir and a spare. poor health and misery would not have made her a brood-mare of any longevity.

family history & early childhood . 

as it stood, anya was more an unexpected result than a desired outcome, and ultimately even a bone of contention. she bound her mother by love, to the arbor and the man that she hated.

they were left well enough alone, for a time, viola and her daughter, the septa, and the maidservants. even the wet nurse sent away. anya’s infancy brought a modicum of respite, but it would not last more than a handful of years.

by that time it aroused suspicion. lady redwyne would hardly leave her chambers, refuse to let the child out of her sight, would not see her husband and even refused food for periods at a time. it was unhealthy, unnatural, they soon started saying. in inns and winesinks at ryamsport men would murmur ‘poor lord redwyne, imagine a wife that beautiful going mad on you,’ into their cups, laughing at their great fortune to have avoided his.

and perhaps there was something real to it, perhaps there really was something unsettling about the arrangement. perhaps not. but in the end it was only the talk that mattered. once it reached lord redwyne’s ears, red with shame at being laughed at by traders and fishermen, he put his foot down. viola’s whims were not to be indulged or tolerated any longer, and besides, ‘the child’—by this he meant anya—‘must grow to be a fool or a half-wit if left in her care.’

and so anya was removed to the care of a cousin, mostly sheltered from her mother’s influence. there were fights about it for months. the withdrawn lady redwyne who would not speak but to her daughter and her maidservant and looked to the window whenever anyone looked at her had disappeared. she raged, schemed to steal her daughter away, wept, wandered the halls at night, and made trouble.

lord redwyne even tried being gentle, for a time, speaking in soft pleading words for her to be reasonable, but gentle or harsh it made no difference. if she saw anya twice, even three times a day, it was not enough — to her mind, he had stolen her daughter, stolen her life, stolen her freedom and anything else he might think of taking, and she wasn’t wrong. but when she threatened to throw herself from the eastern tower, she sealed her own fate.

on horseshoe rock, one of the smaller islands in the waters surrounding the arbor, a small stout keep was furnished and staffed, and lady redwyne was sent out of sight, out of mind, and certainly out of the way, where she couldn’t cause another such a stir — and most importantly, after a while, the talk died down.

personal history .

with all the difficulties tended to, and all the loose ends and loose canons carefully tied down, anya’s upbringing was left to a succession of septas, servants, and after a time, an aunt, newly widowed  and returned to the arbor.

out of her father’s favor for as long as she could remember, with a rocky relationship with her siblings ( i won’t go into detail in case my wc is picked up ! ), anya found little relief within the castle walls. she attended her lessons dutifully, could sew and sing and smile, recite the houses, their sigils and heroes, and it all meant little and less to her.

she wanted to set sail, she had always insisted — since before she knew what it really meant, just uttering phrases picked up along the way the way one does around seafarers — but desmond redwyne would not suffer any of his daughters to venture so far beyond his control. he knew better than to trust sailors, and certainly never trusted women.

so instead anya spent years at her window, watching sails shrink and disappear over the horizon ; by the sea, swimming in a cove under the watchful eye of the septa ; sneaking in the fields during harvest, stealing grapes ripe to bursting. searching desperately, maybe shiftlessly, for a little bit of sweetness. all the while she visited her mother only rarely, on namedays and holy days and days when, for whatever mysterious reason, her father’s pity won out over his good sense.

she studied too, though silently, mostly unnoticed. the kitchen girls, the household guard, the way people talked when they didn’t think anyone was paying attention. watched her father most of all, and had no illusions about him. even if she still aspired to please him, somehow, to gain his approval, she knew: he was a cruel man, harsh, childish, selfish, drunk on wine and himself, and yet still too clever to let all of that be his ruin.

her betrothal, like any lady’s, was inevitable — on the horizon of her future, marriage appeared to her like a fog, uncertain in all aspects but its impending approach. in the end it was a transaction, as these things almost always are. a dowry of ships, wine, and gold ( but really, mostly ships ) was enough to make anya a desirable bride despite the whispers of madness that clung to her mother, and she was promised to the heir of nightsong without even the illusion of being well-matched.

demure, docile, even shy, few suspected that, days before she was to leave for her wedding, anya would disappear in the night. would sneak from the castle in the dark, with a torch and one gold dragon, paid to the wife of a fisherman who, in her husband’s small boat, rowed anya to the shores of horseshoe rock to say goodbye to her mother one last time.

it was a mistake, but she couldn’t have known that. she came at night, the only time she could, but to viola, startled from her sleep, she was a ghost in the moonlight. after the truth came, ‘i’m leaving. father says i must,’ her mother, in tears, threw herself in front of the door, on the ground, wept in fits and refused to let her leave. it was the first and last time anya ever truly believed her mad. with promises that she would refuse her marriage and sail home as soon as she could, she left.

she was guilty, of course — so guilty it ate her up, and very nearly killed her, but not so guilty that she turned back. her mother could not bear for her to go, but anya felt she would die — truly die — if she were forced to stay.

the preparations were already well underway by the time word reached them from the arbor. lady redwyne had disappeared. alseep in bed at night, swore the servant, but gone in the morning. the island was searched for weeks, coasts scoured, sailors and captains interrogated, but to no avail. some say she escaped, others that she was kidnapped, and yet others know with conviction that she simply walked into the sea and drowned

though she wore the her house colors instead of black, anya was married in mourning. the wedding was a ridiculous affair, lavish and splendid and festive, and it only made her all the more self-conscious. she was polite, sweet, but in the momentary lull of conversation she looked lost. doe-eyed — not innocent, but wary, reproachful.

( note --- everything that follows may be changed at a later date if / when her husband is applied for ; i’m trying to keep it as vague as possible for that reason, sorry. )

it was a relief to be gone from the arbor, that she could not deny, but things at nightsong were not better. she was withdrawn, in mourning, clumsy in her attempts to draw affection from her husband and all the while mistrusting him ; even at the arbor she knew the household, was familiar with the scullery maids and the maester. here she was a stranger in her own home, and resentment blossomed as easily and intractably as wildflowers.

in the end she found she had traded a familiar prison for one completely alien to her. in the end it was probably worse. she did not sour quickly, no --- it took time, but sour she did. 

tl ; dr , personality .

a traumatic, tense, and lonely childhood, ghost-like and disconnected. mommy and daddy issues, because why not. that and a poor marriage leaves her bitter, withdrawn ; there is a deep, foul darkness in her that she does not have the strength to keep at bay.

haunted by rumors of madness passed down from her mother, hard to disprove when she seems to be turning into her more and more every day. more recently questions of her fidelity have been raised ; she ignores them publicly but remains wary. honestly she’s not ‘mad’ it’s just what they call women with big emotions and opinions, y’know.

despite all that she still seeks sweetness, tenderness --- she is seriously traumatized and seriously sentimental, but not necessarily a good person. she might try to be or think she is, but in the end she’s also very shady and good at lying to herself, or aspiring to goodness. wants intensity above all else, whether good or bad. 

basically what happens when you put a sweet, sensitive girl into the rough, careless hands of men ; even when they do not mean to misuse her some damage is inevitably done. that’s not to say she’s only a victim ; she can be as cruel as she is tender, and hurting only makes her want to hurt more.

very insecure, which manifests itself in a lot of different ways ; does she try to make herself big and powerful ? does she try to turn herself into whatever it is she thinks someone wants ? does she overthink things and say too little end up seeming like an absolute whacko ? does she get overexcited and yes.

poised and image-aware but resents it. she should have been the daughter of a miller or a fisherman or even a knight, but not of a lord ; harbors secret dreams of simple domesticity but she’s been told at every turn that makes her weak or small-minded so she dreams of nothing instead.

plot ideas !

cousins. i haven’t yet decided what house anya’s mother is from, so there are plenty of options for familial attachments there, though probably a house from the reach / southern kingdom ! her father also probably had sisters, although they’d probably be another generation older and have adult grandchildren at this point, so. second cousins ? i think ? 

failed or cancelled betrothal. this is also super open ! again, would probably be someone from the southern kingdom, all things considered. what their relationship would be or whether they had even ever met is all very much up in the air. 

former flings. again i like to keep my plot ideas open to customization and further plotting ! but i also think that she may, probably, arguably, definitely have sought comfort elsewhere after realizing her marriage was not going the places she was hoping. idk man she just wants to be touched. how intense it was or how long it went on or what it meant are all very very open to discussion, i love a little drama but i definitely don’t need this to turn into a ship or anything ! and again this would be open to any gender because all my muses are bi !

enemies. i cannot stress this enough, i love enemy connections. maybe anya’s jealous and petty which she is perfectly capable of being ; she loves herself a backhanded compliment and has a bad habit of lashing out when she’s feeling upset or otherwise justified in her shittiness. could also be enemies due to bad blood between their families, since her dad is fairly shitty also. 

family ward. could go two ways ; either someone who spent some time in their childhood at the arbor or somewhere anya might have been sent for some time in her childhood ? she was fairly isolated at the arbor for most of her childhood but i would love for her to still have some childhood connections or something.

#badreputation friends. anya adores her sister-in-law amerei more than she can express ; both of them have a dark cloud of a bad reputation hanging over their heads. anya’s a madwoman and a whore, and amerei’s killed all three of her husbands, if the rumors are to be believed. which means that anya absolutely adores any lady with a bad reputation, especially if that reputation is only bad because of misogyny. they also don’t necessarily need to be friends, but anya definitely finds them more interesting than most others.

little sibling-ey relationship. yea i’m braindead and not thinking of cool names for these things anymore. anyway, gimme a muse who’s still all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and brings out the very best in anya ; she’s always been the youngest sibling but with an intense need to protecc ( catch her rehabilitating birds with broken wings and defending the baker’s boy from bullies ). also has loads of mostly half-bad advice to pass on ! 

literally anything else ! please ! i just love intense, extensive, or lore-heavy plots but also anything casual and fun i am not picky ! i just ! want plots and connections and muse to write !

[momtemplative]

Summertime.

Summertime is fucking awesome for a kid.

I remember entire days—chunks of days— that were spent at the pool, with Will Smith’s SummaSummaSummaTime bumping through the loud speakers while we ate nachos with fake cheese for lunch with our wrinkly, chlorine-sodden fingers. For months, everything smelled with a hint of chlorine and freedom. Open expanses of time were glorious.

Then I had kids. 

With kids and summer, there is a lot to consider, a grand choreography to uphold. I always lose sleep before summer. It feels as if my role jumps from “parent” to “coordinator of peace and good times for three straight months,” (even typing all that was exhausting), where everyone is entertained, but not too entertained, happy, but not overly happy, everyone has a routine, but plenty of time for spontaneity, and so on! YAY!

Like all grand puppet-masters, I feel deeply anxious before the show even begins. Damn you, summer!

Summer is just the right length where we can get through it, at times gliding through mercifully, at times, hanging on to all the tow-ropes and oh-shit handles we can find along the way. The number of kid meltdowns and sibling fista-cuffs greatly increases as we near the finish line. The phrase, “We’ll try and get you some space,” is utilized daily. Then, when school starts again, we all heave a sigh of relief that is audible for blocks. 

I wasn’t fully aware of the amount of time and energy that went to keeping the machine-of-summer afloat. Until COVID and our involuntary exposure therapy. We were thrust into “summer” two-and-a-half months early, without warning and without any external supports. It felt like some bizarre test in endurance. Like our human capacity for resilience was being evaluated for future generations. There was no more just getting through. We were thrown in way too deep for that. We had to figure out how to function, how to grow and maintain sanity because, for this version of summer, there really is no finish line.

After the first two COVID-weeks of being at home with the kids, no work or school (or online school at that point), no activities or playdates, no outside world to depend on, I fell apart. As in, to pieces—the way one does when they are trying to hold everything together. The uptick in fights, tantrums and explosive emotions, with no end in sight, was too much to process.

After a few hours of wallowing, I picked myself up and pulled down a pile of books from the shelf that have added perspective in the past—Siblings without Rivalry, The Wisdom of No Escape, Care of the Soul. The words were nice, but nothing cut through the wall of despondency. So I pulled out my phone and searched “Siblings Fighting” on my Janet Lansbury podcast, smearing tears as I went.

(A note here on Janet Lansbury. As a parent of young kids, no one person has benefited my faculties, mental health and wit more than Janet. Her podcast is rich with real-life wisdom that changes the experience of parenthood for the better.)

In the random sibling-titled podcast that I discovered—from years ago, but still, obviously, totally current—Janet was replying to a woman who had three young kids and was losing her mind trying to maintain tranquility in her house. The woman said something to the effect of, it would have been so much easier if I’d only had one.

To this, Janet replied with what felt, to me, like a beautiful and classic snap-out-of-it moment. She said, No. I disagree. Followed by something to the order of this: When you have one child, you can still live under the illusion that you can keep everyone happy. When you have two kids, you start to see that it’s really tough, damn near impossible, to keep everyone happy and peaceful, but you may still try. With three kids, you have the gift of experiencing first hand that the jig is up! No matter what kind of tiny-statue-winning show you maintain, there is no way in hell you can keep three young kids peaceful all the time. So you are forced to stop trying. 

I came to the conclusion that COVID is my third child. 

And with that thought—like the scene in Mary Poppins where the messy room gets magically tidied as if from an internal intelligence all its own—my insides were completely fresh, organized, and updated. My energy quadrupled.

With the externals turned down, with nowhere to go, and all of us cohabiting the same tiny shoebox of a house, it’s not going to be business-as-usual for quite some time. And we’ll all fare better with adjusted expectations. We are all in a fishbowl and, while clocking in endless hours together, I saw right-quick the laundry lists of things I feigned having control of: my girls and their interactions, potty training for Ruth, the weather (which rules if we can or cannot get outside), my mood, Jesse’s mood. 

Janet says, wake up expecting turmoil—then you won't make it your job to live free of it, get rid of it, fix it, numb it. Discord is healthy. Emotions are healthier. Don’t dive in and ride the waves with your kids, stand back and watch, give them space, be there for them to come back to shore. The last thing they need is a mom who is also out of breath, scraped up and with sand in her ears. I don’t need to be Queen Empress of their journey as siblings. I don’t need to have a say in every nuance, every detail and pixel of this habitat. 

And, she says, give yourself permission to flounder, too. Always, but especially right now. Some moments just feel brutally claustrophobic—we can be ready for that. A few days ago, I started crying while Jesse was giving me a shoulder massage. No warning, just did. I had a major-headache and I couldn’t think straight. Opal said, “Mom, are you crying?” SO defensive, I said, “I feel like I’m under a magnifying glass!” and ran out of the room. And sometimes it just goes like that. (I apologized to Opal soon thereafter.) If my emotions are coming out sideways like this—at 42 and with thousands of dollars under my belt spent on therapy—imagine what our sweet kiddos are going through!

And sometimes things settle organically into their rightful place, without force or manipulation. Today, I was lying on the floor in the hallway—not an unusual sight in the middle of the day for me to have my legs up a wall for a short period of time. This time, Ruth was in the bathroom in the tub, the door open to my right. She was acting out a full drama with her Elsa and Anna barbies. Opal was behind her bedroom door, which was closed, reachable by raising my right arm. She was doing her singing lessons over Skype, crooning her gorgeous little heart out. Jesse was behind door number three, our closed bedroom door, easily reached by my left hand. He was talking on the phone in hushed tones to who-knows-who. Three completely separate worlds were happening peacefully, simultaneously, all within my arm’s reach. It was a tiny little subculture, and I was in the middle, observant and spacious, not expending even the slightest molecule of energy. 

If anything, I was bolstered as a part of this whole, the Grimes system, my family.  And there were a few cherished minutes to get lost inside of that settled feeling, which is becoming less and less rare, before Ruth hollered that she needed to pee and I snapped back to attention. 

So here we are, nearing the end of the first official week of summer. No public pool or Will Smith or finger-paint-yellow nacho cheese. I can’t quite fathom a summer without any of the norms—camps and playdates and travel. For now, no public places, parks, or our blessed little library.

Things are starting to slowly open again, though I suppose they have been for weeks now. We have taken two magnificent walks with our close friends—socially distanced and masked. It’s still strange, but a step forward, no doubt. Cultivating moments of connection like these, situations hinged in community—even if virtual—are key in maintaining some sense of equanimity as time moves forward. 

(PS: This is utterly different from the work of the puppet-master.)

Though time feels anything but linear. I flash-forward to the image of my daughters ten, twenty, years from now, reminiscing about the COVID era with their friends. (Six feet apart on walks, remember? The masks, OMG, the MASKS!) I think back to when I was a kid and scour the already-murky memories for some example of a comparable viewpoint, something I can offer to my girls, tell them I had been through something similar when I was their age. But I come up with nothing, nada. 

We are all writing this story as we go.

May 27, 2020

[reedreadsgreek]

Ephesians 1:5-6

ἐν ἀγάπῃ, 5 προορίσας ἡμᾶς εἰς υἱοθεσίαν διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ εἰς αὐτόν, κατὰ τὴν εὐδοκίαν τοῦ θελήματος αὐτοῦ, 6 εἰς ἔπαινον δόξης τῆς χάριτος αὐτοῦ ἧς ἐχαρίτωσεν ἡμᾶς ἐν τῷ ἠγ��πημένῳ.

My translation:

5 having predetermined us in love unto adoption through Jesus Christ unto himself, according to the good pleasure of his will, 6 unto praise of the glory of his grace, which he graced us in the Loved One.

Notes:

Despite the punctuation, most commentators favor ἐν ἀγάπῃ as cataphoric, modifying προορίσας, rather than anaphoric, modifying εἶναι (v. 4).

Verse 5

προορίζω (6x; πρό + ὁρίζω “I establish, determine, appoint”) is, “foreordain, predetermine”. Most translations: “predestined”. NRSV: “destined”. NLT: “decided in advance”. EGGNT notes numerous possibilities for the aorist participle προορίσας, which modifies ἐξελέξατο (v. 4): 1. Temporal (“He chose us... after predestining us”) 2. Means (“He chose us... by predestining us”) 3. Causal (“He chose us... because he predestined us”) 4. Purpose (“He chose us... in order to predestining us”) 5. Epexegetical (“He chose us... that is, he predestined us”) I see option 5 as making the most sense. ICC goes with 3.

εἰς indicates purpose or goal.

ἡ υἱοθεσία (5x), from υἱός + τίθημι “to place”, is, “adoption, sonship”.  The NIV marginal note says, ‘The Greek word for adoption to sonship is a legal term referring to the full legal standing of an adopted male heir in Roman culture’. To retain this legal, filial relationship, most translations have, “adoption as sons”; NRSV: “adoption as his children”; NIV: “adopted to sonship”.

εἰς αὐτόν could refer to either Jesus or God; most commentators favor the latter. It completes the idea of υἱοθεσία, indicating into whose household we are adopted; it is left untranslated in most translations (“to himself”, ESV & NASB).

EGGNT says κατὰ here is not just the norm or standard for God's action but also the reason, “because of”; however, most translations go with, “according to”.

ἡ εὐδοκία (9x), εὖ “good” + δοκέω “think, seem”, is, “goodwill, good pleasure, purpose”; the cognate verb is εὐδοκέω. It is modified by the genitive τοῦ θελήματος, which EGGNT says could be attributed, “his favorable decision”. ESV: “the purpose of his will”; NASB: “the kind intention of his will”; NIV: “his pleasure and will”. The UBS Handbook (by Bratcher and Nida) notes that although this clause is redundant, since we were already told that God predestined because of His love, such repetitions are a stylistic mark of this letter.

Verse 6

εἰς indicates purpose or goal. UBS Handbook says that εἰς ἔπαινον suggests an imperatival sense, “we should praise” or “we must praise.” EGGNT suggests three interpretations of the phrase εἰς ἔπαινον δόξης τῆς χάριτος αὐτοῦ with the two genitives: 1. δόξης is attributive to ἔπαινον (“for the glorious praise of his grace”) 2. δόξης is attributed to τῆς χάριτος (“for the praise of his glorious grace”) 3. δόξης is objective and τῆς χάριτος is attributive to it (“for the praise of his gracious glory”) Since God's glory is the focus of this section, not his grace, option 2 is to be preferred (most translations: “to the praise of his glorious grace”), although ICC says that to make δόξης ‘a mere adjectival attribute’ is ‘weak and inadmissible’.

ICC notes, ‘We are so accustomed to use the word “grace” in a technical religious sense, that we are prone to forget the simple meaning which it so often has, “undeserved bounty,” “free gift”’.

As the object of ἐχαρίτωσεν, the relative pronoun ἧς should have been accusative, but has been attracted in case to its antecedent χάριτος. Byzantine manuscripts replace it with ἐν ᾗ; the harder reading ἧς was favored by the UBS Committee.

χαριτόω (2x), from χάρις “grace, gift, favor”, is, “bestow favor on, favor highly, bless” (BDAG). NIV: “which he has freely given us”. Its only other NT use was in Luke 1:28 to describe Mary as God's ‘favored one’.

ἠγαπημένῳ is a perfect passive substantival participle (from ἀγαπάω). ἐν is locative (sphere). For ἐν τῷ ἠγαπημένῳ, most translations have, “in the Beloved”. In translations where the subject of the love is made explicit, it is assumed to be God; NIV: “in the One he loves”. The NET Bible translation notes say that the term ‘bears connotations of “only beloved” in an exclusive sense’.

After ἠγαπημένῳ, Western manuscripts insert υἱῷ αὐτοῦ for clarity.

[lizord-lord]

The Invisible Language

(This is a vent fic. I was struggling with having to dump a friend yesterday and it got me dwelling on my social struggles..and so I tried my hand at actually writing a fic to project all my problems through! XD)

(For anyone who doesn’t know, I have autism-Aspergers specifically, and I totally 100% headcanon Logan as an aspie. I have this post detailing why. So..for those of you who also stan autistuc Logan (and maybe a bit of ADHD Roman) here is this, me basically throwing my entire life story on our poor nerd and I am so sorry but also not XD. Also, the book I mentioned is very real, and I actually own it. It’s really useful, if a bit dated and heteronormative)

Warnings: Descriptions of sensory overload (similar to a panic attack) social struggles, very brief mention of selfharm, mentions of fistfights and minor physical violence.

Ships: none, but you can probably see my logicality heart in there lmao

The Invisible Language.

It was all just so complicated now.

Or rather, now he knew how complicated it was.

Before, Logan had always just thought he was bad with people. That was fine. It fit, with his habit of staying inside with his nose in a book. The socially awkward, introverted nerd who wasn’t good with kids.

It was simple.

But that’s the thing. Life isn’t simple. And neither was Logan. Even as a six year old.

The socially awkward, introverted nerd, from what he’d seen on tv, would have cried or just silently tried to make due when another kid ‘accidentally’ spilled tomato juice all over his copy of Alice in Wonderland. Logan Sanders leapt from his desk, grabbed the kid’s wrist, and yanked him down so his head smashed into the wood.

The socially awkward one was laughed at. Logan was sent to the office.

Time and time again this would happen. Until he turned eight, and his parents pulled him out of school. He was homeschooled after that, and it was simultaneously like a breath of fresh air and entering a stifling hot room. He was free of the children, free to discover on his own, but he found himself itching for more, to ask questions about things his parents could answer, to do projects he’d heard about online but often ended up screaming in his attempts to recreate them because it wasn’t explained, why this, why that, how do I do that, it doesn’t make sense!!

Homeschooling was a blessing and a curse. He made due. He did well in fact, almost all of his online courses were marked complete with a neat 100 for the score. It was enough for them, but not for him.  Eight year old Logan hated it. Ten year old Logan was used to it.

Eleven year old Logan dug his heels into it.

Middle school. His parents wanted to send him back. He understood their reasoning, the rational half of his brain did. Middle school was a big change, adolescence, and the middle ground before high school, which he always knew he would be going to-you can’t get college credit from online courses and library books after all, not the ones he was using. It would give him time to prepare. And yet he was a creature of habit, so used to his solitary life..

Logan has no choice however.

On the first day he stepped inside, armed with only the knowledge of American Girl books he’d skimmed through (who cared if they were meant for girls, they didn’t write helpful guides for boys!) and distant memories of elementary school. The first weeks went by as a blur, and Logan ate it up. The assignments, the grades, the smirk he always found himself wearing when he placed his assignments in the bin. That triumph didn’t even compare to the rush of pride and satisfaction he felt when the teacher told the class that he test they’d been given was apparently too hard, many kids failed and only one student actually got a perfect score, and his paper was handed back with a 100 written on the top.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t hold the paper up a bit and catch the eyes of the numerous people who stared at him with no surprise in their eyes.

Logan even found friends in those first few weeks. A darkly dressed kid who, much like him, never really knew where to go during paired projects and ended up working with him. He found that Virgil was actually very bright, a relief when he looked around the room to see people talking and not doing anything useful. The pale boy was quiet, but listened as Logan chattered away about his  plans for the assignment.

Patton was next, a round-faced boy who seemed to share at least a few words with everyone he saw. Logan didn’t mind that. He wasn’t a lazy student, maybe a bit easily distracted, but when he was sat next to Logan in science his work quality was always at least a solid B, as long as he was shushed every now and again. He seemed better with people too, and Logan found himself enjoying his company.

Then there was Roman. He was introduced to their little trio by Patton, who apparently shared a drama class with the tanned boy. He was..a handful. And yet Logan found himself challenged by him. Their friendship was an unusual one, full of debates that more often than not ended in yelling, but at least they started off with intelligent points and interesting ideas-and if often Patton had to break off their passion so neither of them landed with lunch detention, well that was the price to pay.

He was enjoying himself here.

Then the second month. Logan remembered where he was when a redheaded girl told him he was wrong in that ‘you’re a moron’ tone when he told her that actually, the word for the study of space was astronomy, not astrology. When a boy in a green sweater had blatantly ignored him when he asked him to stop scooting his chair across the hard floors. When an entire group of people had continued to call him Logie even though he’d told them over and over he hated it. Many of them seemed to do it just because it annoyed him. This went on. Every day another simpleton would disrespect him. Every day he’d tell him to stop. Often he’d snap at them, or swear. That always got him snickers in return. And Logan found himself clenching his fists as his whole body burned red hot.

It happened again a week after this started. A boy with a Minecraft t-shirt cut him off in the lunch line, and when Logan told him to go to the end, the boy only scoffed and responded with “Are you in kindergarten?” in a tone that made his blood boil with how fucking snotty it was.

Logan’s hand was fisted in the back of that obnoxious t-shirt and pulling back with all its might before he could think.

The boy ended up on the floor crying, and Logan ended up suspended.

There were more incidents that year. Mostly yelling or swearing, but minor physical violence was not unheard of. It was common even.

Logan didn’t want that. He wanted to be cool, to drop the bullies and idiots with bullets of intelligence from his tongue, but everything he tried a witty comeback they’d give him either confused looks, no acknowledgement as all, or retort with ‘Your mom’ jokes, a sort of ‘insult’ that required barely a single brain cell to perform.

They never listened. They were stupid, childish, disrespectful. Logan stuck only to his three friends and the many teachers he’d grown quite friendly with, They liked him after all, he was precocious and that was something teachers always found fun. with adults, he also found he could make himself actually heard, his theories, ideas, suggestions, it was a glorious freedom he had previously only had with Patton, Roman, and Virgil.

But things didn’t get that much better.

In fact, in seventh grade Logan found his outbursts getting worse. They were farther and fewer between, but the eventual rage that would explode was far worse than before. It was like the dam that held back his rage had grown stronger, but that meant it took more water to barrel it over, and that sent far more devastating floods down the peaceful valley of his mind.

In eighth grade, he got into a fistfight with a boy who had called Roman gay as an insult, not knowing that it was true or that the word should not be used in such a manner. When the boy refused to listen to Logan’s explanation of what the word meant and instead switched tracks to scoffing every time he said it was a normal and perfectly acceptable, beautiful thing. And by the time the midget of a bigot tossed in the dreaded f-slur Logan’s mind was so crimson he only felt a rush of relief when his fist connected with the boy’s head.

It was two weeks of suspension for that. And it was during that time that Logan’s mother revealed something to him that he had never expected.

Tales of his childhood-or babyhood rather, where he had exhibited strange behaviors no other parent seemed to have seems.

“I think you might have Aspergers,” she had said.

And now, here he was. He couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to tell him of her suspicions. But now Logan was sitting on his bed, the blanket covered with constellations, staring at the cover of a book.

It was a familiar scene.

But this wasn’t a book chosen by Logan’s own hand, or by the school, or even a recommendation from his parents or a loan from his younger sister Abby.

It had been gifted to him by the man at the Autism Center.

The Asperkid’s Secret Guide to Social Rules.

He’d read the whole thing.

Before, he’d thought he was just awkward.

But no. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. It wasn’t that he just didn’t know that w to say. He was. missing an entire way of communicating that people his mind now knew as ‘neurotypicals’ spoke in without realizing it.

The secret language. Body language, facial expressions, tone, he knew that all existed yes..but he’d never seen it. At least not in the subtleties the book described. And all these double meanings of phrases? So the dark-skinned girl who had asked him what he was reading during math class didn’t want to just read the back and learn Sherlock Holmes’ latest mystery? She’ wanted to get to know him?

Why didn’t she just say so!

It was so much more complicated now. The vague, yet simple term of ‘weird’ was replaced by the vast, yet specific, confusing, and multifaceted word that was autistic. A word he’d never have expected to apply to him. Mental health went really a subject he’d looked into, feelings were too wound into it.. and feelings had always been his greatest vice.

So now, with that book in his hand, he thought.

There was a whole other world he couldn’t see..that’s what he had been missing all this time? was the specific shifts in tone in posture people made-what he’d always thought to be absently-something his parents expected him to understand and that was why he always seemed to have to be elbowed when running his mouth?

It was like….like telepathy. Yes, to Logan, the cues he now found himself putting extra effort into finding; his sister’s slightly hunched shoulders at the dinner table, his dad’s slightly turned up nose when he mentioned his history teacher, were a sort of telepathy that the ‘normal’ population all shared. But it wasn’t as if it was that simple. Of course, it was tauntingly, agonizingly complicated. You see, these people were all telepaths, sharing cues in an invisible tongue-and yet, none of them knew they were telepathic. And yet still, they all expected everyone else to be.

So that was why he was strange. Logan had looked up how much of communication was non-verbal - he felt his eyes go wide when he saw the percentage dedicated to ‘body language’.

Fifty-eight percent.

Fifty-eight percent.

What else could he have missed?

Logan was both happy and uncomfortable with the diagnosis. He now knew terms, words, blessed reasons for his little ticks, why he felt like something was terribly wrong for at least an hour just because he’d had to take an alternate route to school (routine disruption), why was such a picky eater (finickiness caused by sensitivity to textures and certain flavors/smells), why people always responded with confusion whenever they saw him pepper the science teacher with question after question, challenge after challenge like he was trying to understand how the universe wove itself in the span of five minutes, and looked surprised when Roman asked him if he knew why Patton was being quiet. Logan had responded with a simple no, informing the other that Patton hadn’t told him-and when the slightly taller boy had suggested that he ask, Logan realized the thought had never occurred to him.

Most importantly, it explained what Roman had dubbed ‘The Fitness Fiasco’. To sum it up, Logan had thought of a new game for their groups to play in gym class—something besides basketball for once in their lives, and yet as he tried to explain, the girl who seemed to have taken charge of the group he was trying to explain the idea to kept talking over him, ignoring him, challenging what he said—and the noise. The noise, how all the chattering and the sound of balls bouncing on the floor, the rage he felt at being slighted in this way, how it had attacked him. How he’d suddenly found himself tensing, wanting to run or to yell, unsure which, how the sound turned solid and pressed in-his muscles going taut, his hands twitching with every word from the students mouths,  how his arm violently jerked away as Patton tried to comfort him- And then the scream. He’d screamed at the top of his lungs for quiet, falling to the ground and sobbing in the fetal position—eyes screwed shut behind his glasses and hands clamped tight to his ears, unsure of what was even falling from his mouth aside from the fact that he was begging, begging for silence. It had only quieted a bit as people turned to stare, and then he’d felt hands on his shoulders, ones he jerked away from—but no one knew what to do. Virgil’s low whispers for him to breathe, to use the 4-7-8 method that the emo always used to calm his own panic attacks, was only met with more incoherent begging for silence. It had been Patton who rescued him, who brought the teacher over and ended up guiding the sobbing Logan to an empty classroom. There he had been met with silence. There he felt his terrified bawling turn to weeping with relief. In the silence, he’d recovered, his muscles lost the tension, and he allowed the freckled boy to wrap him in a hug.

He’d only been able to call it a panic attack before. But now he knew the term. Sensory overload, brought on my the noise and the stress.

It had been a relief just to know that. To know that in moments when he stood among too many people, feeling his muscles clench as their shoulders brushed his, that his hands should not go out to push them away, but to his ears, to block out the trigger.

It became a cue, when debates with Roman got heated—they were friends after all, if rivals as well, and it was understood that if Logan’s jaw suddenly clenched and his hands went up to cover his ears, they had to pause for at least a minute.

But of course, knowing where the holes in his social skills were led to Logan compensating, and it didn’t..always feel natural. He found himself staring at people, trying to read their faces, for a little too long on many an occasion, or overreacting to something because he’d overanalyzed the tone. He found himself having to bite his tongue on many an occasion to keep himself from simply explaining why he did what he did to his parents, who would only take it as making excuses.

It was a balance of the good, the bad, and the ugly. He understood now that his all-or-nothing attitude was why he found himself simply not doing projects if he couldn’t grasp the material—and this led to him having to more often than not, swallow his pride and ask for help when he was getting frustrated. Yet the same black-and-white philosophy got him gasps of shock from Roman when he explained that, in the story Roman had been iterating to him, the whole second half of the plot could have been avoided if Leealli had simply decapitated Sorcerer Kai while they were trapped in her dungeon. Roman had protested, saying it would make her just as terrible as they, but Logan had frowned, explaining that yes, the act was cruel, but if a single act of evil by her direct hand was all it took to stop countless others by her indirect hand, wasn’t it worth it?

But he had also been the one to convince Patton not to remain friends with Oliver, when one day, sitting on the cotton candy clouds that patterned Patton’s quilt, the smaller boy had confided in him that Oliver had vented about his habits of self-harm to the kind soul for three hours the night previous, yet refused any help Patton gave, shot down any attempt at saying he was worth more than he thought.

It was Logan who had took Patton’s hand and told him that people like that could only be helped by themselves and a therapist, that he should not take it upon himself to bear others’ problems in that way. Who had given him a hesitant hug and told him that his mental health was just as important as theirs.

His friends were his lifeline. Maybe they tripped him up—well, they definitely did, yet as much as he found himself apologizing to Virgil for seeming angry when he was simply tired and being a bit blunter and more insensitive with his words than usual (not that he usually was tactful or sensitive when it came to criticism, even constructive criticism) he found himself sighing in relief as the anxious boy shared with him his own experiences in worrying about the negative undertones in the words of others too much to be considered healthy. They would sit and talk about it, the same experience for two different reasons, one of them due to the irrational fear of people disliking him or being angry, and the other due to worrying he was doing something incorrectly that he was not aware of, failing to pick up on a crucial piece of information.

As much as Logan found himself and Roman butting heads, even shouting at each other during friendly debates gone sour, name-calling and snapping fault after fault, he reflected fondly on the time he had been ecstatic to discover that Roman’s own ADHD-riddled brain hyperfixated on Disney just as his own did on Sherlock, and they would both go on for hours about their obsessions while sadly recalling how old interests had faded.

As much as he often found himself hurting Patton unintentionally, and even worse, learning that Patton had been hiding that fact from him for weeks as to spare his feelings, as difficult as it was to convince (well, more plead with) Patton to tell him these things, as he wouldn’t be offended much and he had no other way of knowing what he was doing wrong, he found himself sitting by his side, all attention completely fixated on what to him were mindblowing truths about people and yet seemed common, boring knowledge to Patton, as the freckled boy explained cues and rules, that invisible language Logan did not speak.

Those friends stuck by him, even though others did not. With all the walls Logan had built up around his emotions, to protect himself and others, few could breach the fortifications—except for those who had already been on the inside as he built them. And he was fine with that.

Going to a therapist was...awkward at first, but it helped. Mr. Picani understood his aversion to talking of his feelings, and instead cleverly tricked him every time, asking questions about events until Logan was off on an angry rant. With that expelled, they’d talk through possible solutions.

He kept the book. And most of the other books he was given on the topic, eager to learn and understand more things about himself, knowing the reasons behind behaviors, quirks in things had always been one of his favorite things, and now he found it was possible in people.

As Logan worked through his discovery during the last semester of eighth grade and through that summer, with his Virgil, Patton, Roman, his parents, Mr. Picani, and occasionally even his rainbow-haired little sister, he found his mind shifting. He was truly calm now more often than not, able to express his rationale...well, rationally, rather than through insults. His debates grew calmer, and while he certainly had his slip-ups..he was improving. Slowly. Steadily.

His viewpoint of the world was unusual, like an outsider, and while that could be isolating, if he explained it well, people were often interested to hear it. It was different, his own; the metaphor Logan found himself using was that everyone else was a Macintosh computer, and he and his fellow spectrumites were PCs, capable of all the same things, though in ways the world was not wired to accommodate. Also, clearly superior in many a way.

His core programming was different, even if his exterior seemed the same, and Logan was okay with that. He’d never know the invisible language, not as a native would, but he could learn it—the same way he learned slang, through help, a lot of online research, his friends, and some study notes here and there.

It was complicated, they way he figured things out, the systems he’d devised. But complicated problems would never be solved with simple solutions.

And he still had plenty of time left to learn.

(Thanks to @poisonedapples for betaing this and basically screaming RELATABLE every two second, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear!)

(...I don’t really have a general fic taglist so imma just- y e a here)

Tags: @royallyanxious @whatwashernameagain @sandersmarvel @the-incedible-sulk @supremestoverlord @hanramz-the-fander @childhood-wishes-and-dreams @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @madly-handsome @galaxy-warping @extremist-water-agenda @ierindoodles @princeanxious

[sylvari-bouquet]

The Homecoming

tw: family abuse, death

Almost thought we made it home, but we don't know this place at all.

The sickening smell of decay mixes with tar. Its black pungent mass is slowly dripping, oozing, pooling, seeping through every crack, leaving every surface it touches viscous. Bones, more than one can count, littering the floor and decorating the walls, like victory trophies, or a warning. Likely both. Aisha's heart is racing, she adjusts her grip on her blade as she makes her way through the sewers of Moon Palace. She evades the fiery traps with ease, and passes quickly through the torture chambers, not wishing to look the twisted display of dead bodies of the commander more than necessary.

As she reaches a larger hall, the voice of the lich king sounds out, almost as if he'd be everywhere at once.

"What do we have here? A lone Sunspear. Does the commander really think so little of me that they sent their lackey? I'm hurt, truly."

"Show yourself and fight me, you tyrant!" Aisha yells to the empty room. A laughter echoes through the hall, unfazed by her challenge.

"Sunspear, it truly saddens me that I cannot be a proper host and greet you in person. But don't fret, I did prepare you a little gift! As a thanks for being a stubborn thorn for all these years. That should keep you entertained."

A sound of snapping fingers as their cue, three figures step out from the shadows. Their gaunt is erratic and shifting side to side. 

"Let's say you defeat my champions, and I might entertain the possibility of a warm-up before the real show. However, if you happen to die, I'll just have to sent you back to commander with a proper invitation."

As the torch light illuminates the first face, all air leaves Aisha in an instant. "Father?" --- "I have great news for you, my daughter!" His face was beaming, a sight more rare than a rain fall. "Our family has been chosen to receive the blessing of Awakening, and we have decided that you should be the one to receive this honour." Aisha's mind blanked out. This was the worst possible news. "Me? But I haven't even finished my studies-" His face dropped to a more awkward smile. It did not meet his eyes. "Don't worry about simple stuff like that! This is a chance of a lifetime! You'll do our family proud." He gave a pat to her shoulder, and Aisha could not recall when was the last time he had touched her in a familiar way. --- "You threw away a glorious future and disgraced our family line. But look at us, my daughter! In his infinite wisdom and mercy, King Joko has offered his blessing to us, and we have been awakened in his name, to serve his cause!" The figure hisses, poison dripping from his words and his blade.

Aisha takes a step back, as another familiar face comes in to the view. "Mother?" --- "Can't you talk with father about this? I've never said I'd want anything to do with awakening!" Aisha could barely hold her frustation back. "It's just the way it is, dear." mother said in a same tone if Aisha had been complaining about doing chores. "You must understand, ever since your sister married last year, father has been very anxious about your future." Aisha's frustation broke loose, and flooded the room like a storm: "But that doesn't mean awakening is my only option! Why no one has asked what I want! I should be the one making choices for my own life!" Yet her mother continued: "Look, we all have to make sacrifices, and besides, the status of awakened comes with many privileges. Think of it as a blessing in disguise." "With the cost of my freedom." Aisha mumbled in defiance, but before she could even finish, she felt her mother grabbing her face and turning it towards her. "What good is freedom? Will it keep you sheltered? Will it feed you? That you're free to roam in to the desert and get killed by the first ambush of a sand shark? I've paid the price to keep myself and my family safe and alive. Your grandmother has done the same, as her mother before her. It's your turn to grow up and do the same." With that, her mother left the room. Aisha swallowed her tears, but the storm was still raging. --- "Why did you abandon us? Weren't we good enough for you? We fed you, clothed and cared for you, yet you hurt us deeply, running away. Did you not love us, dear? Did you want to cause us pain?" The coldness freezes the air around Aisha.

One figure remains, and like a flood, a terrible realization flashes through her, and grips to her like the inky tar.

The third figure comes to a view. -- "Granny! Tell me the story of how Turai Ossa fought in the battle of Jahai, please?" Aisha asked. "That old story? Isn't this a third time you asked for this week?" Grandma continued peel an apple with dexterous hands, holding a beautiful knife that doesn't seem to be designed for kitchen work. "Please! I even cleaned my room!" "And fed the Dolyaks?" "Yes!" Grandma surrendered under Aisha’s persistence: "Fine, fine, if you're so eager to listen this old lady." "Mother! You shouldn't be reciting that sort of blasphemy! What if someone hears?" Aisha's mother glanced around as if there was already someone listening, or if father had returned earlier than expected. Grandma tuts, and says: "It's called history, dear, and let them hear. Might be a good lesson, even for you." Grandma ignored the exasperated huff of her daughter, and continued to talk to Aisha: "listen well, little bird. It all started when Turai Ossa was the Warmarshal of Kourna-"

Years later, during the darkest hour of the night.

"You thought you could sneak out without saying a word?" Grandma was older, wearier, but still has the same sparkle in her eyes like she did when she had told Aisha the stories of past. "Grandma, I'm sorry. I can't stay here. I don't want-" Aisha's explanation is cut short with a familiar tut. "I know, little bird." Her grandma handed her a golden chain, with a decoration shaped like a sun. "Take this, and head west. They will surely welcome you." Aisha grabbed her grandma for a one last hug, and bidded farewell with tears in her eyes: "Thank you for everything." Grandma kept her eyes on the lone figure until she disappeared behind the dunes and the first rays of morning sun coloured the sky. -- Grandmother, she rushes past the two in instant, and Aisha has barely time to lift up her shield to block the dagger. Aisha recognizes the design now: a blade of the Sunspears.

Grandma says only one phrase: "Show me what you've learnt."

Her father is first to fall. With a deep slash to his back, he crumbles down to his knees. His mouth moves, but if he says something, Aisha cannot hear it. Mother follows soon after. Aisha pierces the heart, but her blade gets stuck, and she has no time to pull it out. Her mother's hands reach out, but Aisha is long gone. Grandmother still stands, relentless in her attack. In a desperate move, Aisha flings out the shield, and the dagger flies out from her grandma's hold. Aisha rushes towards it, and takes it mere moments before her grandma in on her. Aisha plunges, and the dagger slashes deep to the throat. As grandmother's body goes limp, Aisha catches her. "Welcome back, little bird." "I'm home, grandma."

[wisdomrays]

THE GUIDE FOR THE YOUTH: The Sixth Topic From The Fruits of Belief

In Kastamonu a group of high-school students came to me, saying: "Tell us about our Creator, our teachers do not speak of Allah." And I said to them: "All the sciences you study continuously speak of Allah and make known the Creator, each with its own particular tongue. Do not listen to your teachers; listen to them."

For example, a well-equipped pharmacy with life-giving potions and cures in every jar weighed out in precise and wondrous measures doubtlessly shows an extremely skilful, practised, and wise pharmacist. In the same way, to the extent that it is bigger and more perfect and better equipped than the pharmacy in the market-place, the pharmacy of the globe of the earth with its living potions and medicaments in the jars which are the four hundred thousand species of plants and animals shows and makes known to eyes that are blind even - by means of the measure or scale of the science of medicine that you study - the All-Wise One of Glory, Who is the Pharmacist of the mighty pharmacy of the earth.

To take another example, a wondrous factory which weaves thousands of sorts of cloth from a simple material doubtless makes known a manufacturer and skilful mechanical engineer. In the same way, to whatever extent it is larger and more perfect than the human factory, this travelling Dominical machine known as the globe of the earth with its hundreds of thousands of heads in each of which are hundreds of thousands of factories shows and makes known - by means of the measure or scale of the science of engineering which you study - its Manufacturer and Owner.

And, for example, a depot, store, or shop in which has been brought together and stored up in regular and orderly fashion a thousand and one varieties of provisions undoubtedly makes known a wondrous owner, proprietor, and overseer of provisions and foodstuffs.

In just the same way, to whatever degree it is vaster and more perfect than such a store or factory, this foodstore of the Most Merciful One known as the globe of the earth, this Divine ship, this Dominical depot and shop holding goods, equipment, and conserved food, which in one year travels regularly an orbit of twenty-four thousand years, and carrying groups of beings requiring different foods and passing through the seasons on its journey and filling the spring with thousands of different provisions like a huge waggon, brings them to the wretched animate creatures whose sustenance has been exhausted in winter, - by means of the measure or scale of the science of economics which you study - this depot of the earth makes known and makes loved its Manager, Organizer, and Owner.

And, for example, let us imagine an army which consists of four hundred thousand nations and each nation requires different provisions, uses different weapons, wears different uniforms, undergoes different drill, and is discharged from its duties differently. If this army and camp has a miracle-working commander who on his own provides all those different nations with all their different provisions, weapons, uniforms, and equipment without forgetting or confusing any of them, then surely the army and camp show the commander and make him loved appreciatively. In just the same way, the spring camp of the face of the earth in which every spring a newly recruited.

Divine army of the four hundred thousand species of plants and animals are given their varying uniforms, rations, weapons, training, and demobilizations in utterly perfect and regular fashion by a single Commander-in-Chief Who forgets or confuses not one of them - to whatever extent the spring camp of the face of the earth is vaster and more perfect than that human army, - by means of the measure or scale of the military science that you study - it makes known to the attentive and sensible, its Ruler, Lord, Administrator, and Most Holy Commander, causing wonderment and acclaim, and makes Him loved and praised and glorified.

Another example: Millions of electric lights that move and travel through a wondrous city, their fuel and power source never being exhausted, self-evidently make known a wonder-working craftsman and extraordinarily talented electrician who manages the electricity, makes the moving lamps, sets up the power source, and brings the fuel; they cause others to congratulate and applaud him, and to love him. In just the same way, although some of the lamps of the stars in the roof of the palace of the world in the city of the universe - if they are considered in the way that astronomy says - are a thousand times larger than the earth and move seventy times faster than a cannon ball, they do not spoil their order, nor collide with one another, nor become extinguished, nor is their fuel exhausted.

According to astronomy, which you study, for our sun to continue burning, which is a million times larger than the earth and a million times older and is a lamp and stove in a guest-house of the Most Merciful One, as much oil as the seas of the earth and as much coal as its mountains or as much logs and wood as ten earths are necessary for it not to be extinguished. And however much greater and more perfect than this example are the electric lamps of the palace of the world in the majestic city of the universe, which point with their fingers of light to an infinite power and sovereignty which illuminates the sun and other lofty stars like it without oil, wood, or coal, not allowing them to be extinguished or to collide with one another, though travelling together at speed, to that degree - by means of the measure of the science of electricity which you either study or will study - they testify to and make known the Monarch, Illuminator, Director, and Maker of the mighty exhibition of the universe; they make Him loved, glorified, and worshipped.

And, for example, a book in every line of which a whole book is finely written, and in every word of which a Sura of the Qur’an is inscribed with a fine pen, which is most meaningful and all of whose matters corroborate one another, a wondrous collection showing its writer and author to be extraordinarily skilful and capable, undoubtedly shows its writer and author together with all his perfections and arts are clearly as daylight, and makes him known. It makes him appreciated with phrases like, What wonders Allah has willed! and, Blessed be Allah! And just the same is the mighty Book of the Universe; we see with our eyes a pen at work which writes on the face of the earth, which is a single of its pages, and on the spring, which is a single folio, the three hundred thousand plant and animal species, which are like three hundred thousand different books, all together, one within the other, without fault or error, without mixing them up or confusing them, perfectly and with complete order, and sometimes writes an ode in a word like a tree, and the complete index of a book in a point like a seed. However much vaster and more perfect and meaningful than the book in the example mentioned above is this compendium of the universe and mighty embodied Qur’an of the world, which is infinitely full of meaning and in every word of which are numerous instances of wisdom, to that degree - in accordance with the extensive measure and far-seeing vision of the natural science that you study and the sciences of reading and writing that you have practised at school - it makes known the Inscriber and Author of the Book of the Universe together with His infinite perfections.

Proclaiming Allah is Most Great!, it makes Him known. Uttering words like Glory be to Allah!, it describes Him. Uttering praises like All praise be to Allah!, it makes Him loved.

Thus, hundreds of other sciences like these make known the Glorious Creator of the universe together with His Names, each through its broad measure or scale, its particular mirror, its far-seeing eyes, and searching gaze; they make known His attributes and perfections.

"It is in order to give instruction in this matter, which is a brilliant and magnificent proof of Divine Unity, that the Qur’an of Miraculous Exposition teaches us about our Creator most often with the verses,

Lord of the Heavens and the Earth, and, Creator of the Heavens and Earth." I said this to the schoolboys, and they accepted it completely, affirming it by saying: "Endless thanks be to Al-lah, for we have received an absolutely true and sacred lesson. May Allah be pleased with you!" And I said:

Man is a living machine who is grieved with thousands of different sorrows and receives pleasure in thousands of different ways, and despite his utter impotence has innumerable enemies, physical and spiritual, and despite his infinite poverty, has countless needs, external and  inner, and is a wretched creature continuously receiving the blows of death and separation. And yet, through belief and worship, he suddenly becomes connected to a Monarch so Glorious that he finds a point of support against all his enemies and a source of help for all his needs, and like everyone takes pride at the honour and rank of the lord to whom he is attached, you can compare for yourselves how pleased and grateful and thankful and full of pride man becomes at being connected through belief to an infinitely Powerful and Compassionate Monarch, at entering His service through worship, and transforming for himself the announcement of the execution of the appointed hour into papers releasing him from duty.And I repeat to the calamity-stricken prisoners what I said to the schoolboys:"One who recognizes Him and obeys Him is fortunate even if he is in prison. While one who forgets Him is wretched and a prisoner even if he lives in a palace."Even, one wronged but fortunate man said to the wretched tyrants who were executing him: "I am not being executed but being demobilized and going to happiness. But I see that you are being condemned to eternal execution and so am taking complete revengse on you." And saying: "There is no god but Allah!", he happily yielded up his spirit.

[drmaqazi]

WHAT IS THE EXACT MEANING OF SUBHANALLAH? Subhanallah (in Arabic: سُـبْحانَ الله) is a central word to Islam who’s meaning often gets mixed in translation. There is no one correct or precise definition in English but it is generally understood that Subhanallah means “Allah is Perfect," “Glory be to God," or “How Free of any Imperfection is Allah," “May He Be Exalted”. VERSES IN QURAN THAT MENTION THE WORD SUBHANALLAH: In the Holy Qur’an there are verses in which Subhanallah is said, it’s often recited in the context of warning people from comparing Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala to other deities. So, Subhanallah encompasses the main principles of Tawheed, i.e., Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala is the one and only, the most glorious, and is a declaration that he is be above any fault, or shortcoming. 

 SUBHANALLAH IS A POWERFUL DHIKR Dhikr (Zikr) are devotional acts which a person repeated recites short phrases either silently in the mind or aloud. Reciting Subhanallah in Tasbih is a powerful form of dhikr with many benefits. The simple act of reciting Subhanallah is a way to glorify Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala. to show your appreciation and be grateful for all the blessings he’s bestowed in your life. Muslims will often recite Subhanallah in tasbeeh while also saying Alhamdulillah and Allahu Akbar. The reason for this is because of the Sunnah of Prophet Muhammad SallAllahu ‘alaihi waSallam. Narrated Ali RadiyAllah 'anhu: Fatima RadiyAllahu ‘anhaa complained of what she suffered from the hand mill and from grinding, when she got the news that some slave girls of the booty had been brought to Allah’s Messenger (ﷺ). She went to him to ask for a maid-servant, but she could not find him, and told `Aisha RadiyAllahu ‘anhaa of her need. When the Prophet (ﷺ) came, Aisha RadiyAllahu ‘anhaa informed him of that. The Prophet (ﷺ) came to our house when we had gone to our beds. (On seeing the Prophet) we were going to get up, but he said, ‘Keep at your places,’ I felt the coolness of the Prophet’s feet on my chest. Then he said, “Shall I tell you a thing which is better than what you asked me for? When you go to your beds, say: ‘Allahu Akbar (i.e., Allah is Greater)’ for 34 times, and ‘Al hamdu Lillah (i.e., all the praises are for Allah)’ for 33 times, and Subhan Allah (i.e., Glorified be Allah) for 33 times. This is better for you than what you have requested.” [1] It does not take much effort to declare and praise Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala, “Subhanallah, Alhamdullilah, Allahu Akbar” there is no harm in saying these three words and it takes no longer than few seconds. It’s just about making the little conscious and deliberate effort to show Him you remember him. You may not know when your dying moments will be, so do not waste these moments. “So remember Me; I will remember you. And be grateful to Me and do not deny Me.”
Surah al-Baqarah, 2, Ayah 152

[alittlepieceofwarcraft]

A Meeting of Minds: Part II

Of course, the Prophet had been beside himself with worry. They’d missed the evening meal and it was reaching close to midnight. He’d been moments away from sending a search party out into the darkness when all five stumbled in, each out of breath from rushing to his quarters in the Exodar. They rambled at first, until sat down with a cool glass of water, each being encouraged to calm down and collect themselves. They spoke of a new friendly race with strange face markings and big, pointed ears to which Velen seemed apprehensive about –  until they mentioned the orcs. They knew the orcs? The orcs were here, in this land? How could this be?

 Another expedition was formed and sent out, just two days after the first encounter. Kali was instructed to extend a formal invitation to the kaldorei to come to the Exodar wherein O’ros would be able to decipher their words with more ease that the previous party had. In an act of good faith, they brought with them baskets of gifts: gorgeous gems of warm amber, glistening emerald and a vibrant violet were set in a shining silver to create necklaces and rings to adorn their new friends. Silken robes dyed in hues of blood red, bright turquoise and glorious jade had been specially tailored just for them. Roasted meat was wrapped in cotton, heaped on top of a grand serving of root vegetables the draenei had discovered. Recalling the child she’d interacted with, Kali ensured that a large box was filled with soft plush elekks for their younglings to appreciate. The extravagant display was welcomed on behalf on the kaldorei by a group of unaware scouts, one of which was the pink skinned one from before. Recognising Kali, she’d flagged down the boat with an exaggerated wave, a pearly beaming smile spread across her face. Kali returned the grin as she docked and unloaded the piles of presents, pointing at them and then to the kaldorei, trying to say, “these are for you”. After the pleasantries had been clumsily given and received through a lengthy translation process of waving hands and pointing, she managed to indicate that she wanted the pink one to come back with them by beckoning.

“You may bring your friends, and more if you wish,” Kali had tried to suggest, flapping her arms around to attempt to make the invitation clear. Nodding at the vegetables, miming eating, waving her hands a little more before saluting, she wanted to say, “please come and dine with us and speak to our leader.” She dropped her sword to the ground, making a cross with her arms over her chest, “No weapons, you will be safe.” The pink one had paused after each charade, nodding in understanding most sentiments, but not others. After a short while, the kaldorei grasped the concept. She bowed, nodded at the boat, pointed towards her companions, then lifted a hand to present a single finger upwards before gesturing at the sun.

“Thank you for the gifts,” Kali gathered from her motions, “we will come with others, but in one day.”

 And so, it was. True to their word, they arrived at midday sharp. A group of kaldorei strung up their boat upon the shores of the draenei-claimed isle and gifted their own tributes to in return. Blocks of wood had been elegantly carved; chipped into intricate depictions of woodland creatures or twirling patterns. Wind mobiles fashioned from twigs were bound in twine, marble-like shells from the beach clinked against smoothed crystal when hung up. They too brought food and drink: sweet, rich wine that the draenei had greatly craved was shipped in by the barrel. But by far the greatest present were a small pack of giant saddled cats, beasts of which none of the draenei had never seen before. White coats were almost cut through with slashes of black markings, eyes glowing a ghostly grey. At least a dozen had been brought over the narrow sea to be handed to the draenei. They’d been unsure if they had mounts and the forest could be thick with enemies, the kaldorei later explained, these cats would be a much safer getaway should a hunting group encounter the wrong enemy. Although they bore no weapons, the two dozen kaldorei were armoured an indigo plating, almost blending in with those who were of a purple shade, feathered paldrons shielding their broad shoulders. Velen himself was there as they docked, giving a deep bow to the small army of kaldorei that had accepted his invite to their now-home.

“Greetings to the kaldorei,” he announced from the front of the draenei gathering as he tried to wrap his tongue around the softer kaldorei dialect, using as many words from their language as he could remember from the recitation of phrases the original scouting party had relayed to him. He opted to replace words he did not know with draenei and using hand gestures to convey the meaning, “I am Velen and I lead these draenei. I am most glad that you accepted the invite, and that you were pleased enough with our humble gifts that you brought your own. It was most kind.” One stepped forward, smiling warmly. Her hair was a blue shade, azure even, contrasting brightly against Velen’s own alabaster hue.

“I am Shandris Feathermoon,” she replied, giving a slight nod of the head to Velen, “I lead the kaldorei Sentinels. We were happy to return the favour and see the place you call home.” Velen pressed his lips together puzzled, unsure of what exactly she represented. “Sentinel” was not a word he knew of, but O’ros would grant clarity once they had reached his chamber. He stretched an arm out toward the direction of the Exodar.

“The vessel that is now our city lays just beyond. Please, we will lead you there.”

 All formed an orderly line when it was time to enter the Exodar that rested to the other side of the isle, all gave small gasps of amazement to the alien architecture none of their kind had ever beheld before. The walls almost hummed with a foreign energy, nearly sang with a sense of fractured peace from centuries of travel. They were fascinated by the tall ceilings that paralleled their own stooped roofs, the smell of sweet and spicy draenic seasonings wafting out of nearby bubbling pots, so different to the warm vegetable brews and slow roasted meats of kaldorei meals. Perhaps the most intriguing sensation was being able to witness a bright being of glimmering navy: a collection of geometric shapes floating up from the ground, echoing a gentle buzz around the small hall in which it dwelled. O’ros’ blessing reached around every member of both parties, almost whispering within their minds to unite their thoughts and bridge the linguistic divide between them. Through his power, the draenei and kaldorei managed to speak freely without restrictions, shedding light by further explaining past conversations that had previously spoken in a string of broken words and simple scribbles in the dirt, and learning much more about both sides.

The draenei discovered many things. The kaldorei were a race of elves, specifically night elves, and at least one other race – known as high elves – lived across on another continent. Ah yes, another continent, two more even, existed on the world of Azeroth: this one was Kalimdor, across the sea lay the Eastern Kingdoms, concluding with an icy domain known as Northrend.

Noon turned to evening, too quickly for either party to realise and would have happy chatted on for hours more if the draenei cooks hadn’t notified them that the banquet was ready. A lavish feast was prepared for the guests: smoked deer meat and slow roasted tender boar dripped with peppery gravy; steamed root vegetables of fluffy potatoes, juicy leeks and sweet turnips, all accompanied by the aged vintage of the night elves poured into silver goblets. The grand meal was laid out on a long dining table almost reaching one end of the city’s main auditorium to the other to host the honoured guests as well as those chosen to entertain them. Velen ensured that Shandris would be seated at the head and decided to seat himself to her left, concluding that conversation between representatives would be easier there rather than having to raise voices from one end to another. Velen had wanted to sit down properly to discuss other races of the land. A topic he both was mightily interested in, but also heavily concerned about. Past traumas kept him off the subject until his plate was nearly emptying. Unable to put it off for much longer, he asked her.

 “Clearly, you night elves are a successful and thriving people,” he said, reaching out to a goblet and taking a sip of wine, “and you mentioned your Quel’dorei cousins.” He prayed that he’d pronounced it efficiently through his thick draeneic accent. “Do you know of other races that live in these lands?” Kalimdor’s natives would be a much more efficient starting point before brancing out into the Eastern Kingdoms. Shandris chewed on the last slice of meat upon her plate, slowly to savour the flavour. After swallowing, she gave a small smile.

 She gave a briefing Velen on those who shared their continent. The Tauren, from how she described them, sounded to be quite the gentle giants: some standing at ten feet tall, horns curving out from their skulls and fine fur coating their bodies. Shandris spoke of a long war thousands of years ago in which the Tauren aided the elves in against terrifying foes, as well as one of the beasts later going on to be tutored in the ways of the druid by a prominent leader of their people. She noted a civil passiveness between the two races, until an orc had overthrown the tyranny of his captors and rallied the bovine-like beings into a horde of sorts. Velen winced at the mention of an orc but let her continue verbally depicting the other races across the world. Gnomes, funny little creatures, were a stark contrast to the towering Tauren; most growing to a mere three foot. However, they appeared to have a large interest in tinkering and inventions. Goblins appeared to be an unsavoury counterpart, standing a little taller but baring smaller pointed ears, their skin an olive hue. The Prophet listened politely, occasionally pressing a detail he thought he’d missed, asking a question about the culture of the people in question. From this, he noted that innovative dwarves possessed a mountain city housing a vast forge to satisfy their smelting and blacksmithing interests. Rumours of wolf-man monsters had travelled across from the east, but yet not confirmed.

“What is a man?” Velen enquired, reeling from the extensive life Azeroth offered in wonder.

“Human,” Shandris extended, and pondered for a moment. “I suppose they are much like us night elves. A little shorter, and they have strange tiny ears and eyes. They rallied many races together into what they call “The Alliance”: the humans, the dwarves, the gnomes and more recently my people. To fight the new Horde.”

“New Horde?” Shandris nodded. The general went on to explain the events of three wars Azeroth endured: the invasion of the orcs, destruction of the human capital, the end to the Dark Portal. Names Velen knew of were spoken: Blackhand, Durotan, Orgrim, Gul’dan. All had met their ends in this new world, their blinded followers only managing to find clarity within the internment camps of the humans. Her accounts were hazy, the information second-hand to her, however her recall became much clearer towards recanting the Third.

“My own people assisted the orcs and humans during a conflict that did not involve the Horde and Alliance. The dead rose, and our world tree was sacrificed for the sake of the mortal races.” Velen’s face froze in puzzlement.

“The dead rose? How can this be?”

“They call themselves the Burning Legion: an unending army of demons. Meddling in foul forces, draining life and giving life back to the dead to create mindless puppets. The right hand of their vile leader tried to use the magics of my people to gain great power. The Defiler Archimonde was ended by our shan’do… oddly enough, he and some other demons appear to be a far more crimson version of your own people, with bigger horns and fiery eyes now that I come to think of it.” Velen’s face did not move upon hearing the name, nor did it upon her epiphany of the eredar and draenei’s similar appearances. Wearily, he merely lay back in his chair, giving a sad smile, his eyes’ twinkle fading a little.

“You have told me much of your past, Sentinel,” he inclined his head at her, “perhaps it is time that you hear of ours. Our tales are more intertwined that one may expect.”

Concludes with A Meeting of Minds: Part III.

[khutbahs]

Eid Takbeer in Eid al Fitr and Eid al Adha

Question

In Eid prayer for Eid al-Adha, I hear people repeat Takbeer (saying "Allah Akbar" in Arabic) the following phrases:

Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, laa ilaaha ill-Allaah, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, wa Lillaahi’l-hamd. Allaah akbar kabeera, walhamdulillaah katheera, wasubhan Allaahi bukratan waaseela, Laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wahdahu fulfilled his promise wa nasara ‘abdah wa a'az jundah wa hazama al-ahzaaba wahdah Laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wa la na'budu ila Iyah mukhliseena lahu’l-deena wa law kariha’l-kaafiroon). They repeat this after each prayer (from the daily 5 prayers), is that true? If wrong, what is the correct phrases to be repeated instead?.

Answer

Praise be to Allaah.

With regard to the format of takbeer: “Allaahu akbar, Allaahu akbar, Allahu akbar laa ilaaha ill-Allaah, wa Allaahu akbar, Allaah akbar, wa Lillaah il-hamd (Allaah is Most Great, Allaah is most Great, Allah is most Great there is no god but Allaah, Allaah is Most great, Allaah is most great, and to Allaah be praise),” this is proven from Ibn Mas‘ood (may Allah be pleased with him) and others of the early generation, whether the first takbeer is said twice or three times.

See al-Musannaf by Abu Shaybah, 2/165-168; Irwa’ al-Ghaleel, 3/125

With regard to the format of takbeer, “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela… (There is no god but Allaah, Allaah is most Great, Allaah is most Great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day…),” Imam al-Shaafa‘i (may Allah have mercy on him) said:

If he adds to that and says: “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela, Allahu akbar wa la na‘budu illa Allah mukhliseena lahu al-deena wa law kariha al-kaafiroon, la ilaaha ill-Allah wahdah, sadaqa wa‘dah wa nasara ‘abdah wa hazama al-ahzaaba wahdah, laa ilaaha ill-Allah wa Allahu akbar (Allaah is most Great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day. Allah is most Great and we worship none but Allah, and we make our worship purely for Him (alone) however much the disbelievers may hate that. There is no god but Allah alone; He fulfilled His promise and granted victory to His slave and defeated the Confederates alone. There is no God but Allah and Allah is most Great),” then he has done well. End quote.

Al-Umm, 1/241

Abu Ishaaq al-Shiraazi said in al-Muhadhdhab (1/121):

Because the Prophet (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) said that atop al-Safa. End quote.

The matter is broad in scope, because the command is to say takbeer in general, and the Messenger (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) did not single out any particular format of takbeeraat. Allah, may He be exalted, says (interpretation of the meaning):

“and that you must magnify Allâh [i.e. to say Takbîr (Allâhu-Akbar; Allâh is the Most Great) for having guided you”

[al-Baqarah 2:185].

So one may follow the Sunnah by saying any format.

Al-San‘aani (may Allah have mercy on him) said: In al-Sharh there are many formats narrated from a number of imams, which indicates that the matter is broad in scope and the general wording of the verse indicates that. End quote.

Subul al-Salaam, 2/72

Ibn Habeeb said: The dearest to me is to say: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, la ilaaha ill-Allah wa Allahu akbar, wa Lillahi al-hamd ‘ala ma hadaana, Allahumma aj‘alna laka min al-shaakireen (Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great, there is no god but Allah and Allah is most Great; praise be to Allah for having guided us; O Allah, make us among those who give thanks to You).

The format preferred by Yazeed was: “Allaahu akbaru kabeera wa alhamdu Lillaahi katheera wa subhaan Allaahi bukratan wa aseela, wa la hawla wa la quwwata illa Billaah (Allaah is most great, much praise be to Allaah and glory be to Allaah at the beginning and end of the day, and there is no power and no strength except with Allah).” And he said: Whatever you add or subtract, or whatever else you say, there is nothing wrong with it. End quote.

‘Aqd al-Jawaahir al-Thameenah, 3/242

Sahnoon said: I said to Ibn al-Qaasim: Did Maalik mention any particular takbeer to you? He said: No. He said: Maalik did not say anything specific concerning these matters. End quote.

Al-Mudawwanah, 1/245

Imam Ahmad said: It is broad in scope. Ibn al-‘Arabi said: Our scholars favoured the view that takbeer is general in scope, which is the apparent meaning of the Qur’aan, and I am inclined to favour this view.

al-Jaami‘ li Ahkaam al-Qur’aan, 2/307

Forms of takbeer for the two Eids that are proven from the salaf:

“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar wa Lillahi al-hamd, Allahu akbar wa ajall, Allahu akbar ‘ala ma hadaana (Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great, Allah is most Great and to Allah be praise; Allah is most Great and most Glorious, Allah is most Great,as He has guided us).”

Narrated by al-Bayhaqi, 3/315, from Ibn ‘Abbaas (may Allah be pleased with him); classed as saheeh by al-Albaani in Irwa’ al-Ghaleel, 3/126

Ibn Hajar said: With regard to the format of the takbeer, the most saheeh that has been narrated concerning it is that which was narrated by ‘Abd al-Razzaaq with a saheeh isnaad from Salmaan who said: “Proclaim Allah’s greatness: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbaru kabeeran.

Fath al-Baari, 2/462

Adhering to what was narrated from the Sahaabah concerning that is more appropriate.

And Allah knows best.

Eid Takbeer from Makkah

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDfinOSmBWs

[pamphletstoinspire]

A NINE DAY NOVENA TO SAINT PATRICK

RECITED FROM: MARCH 8TH — 16TH FEAST DAY: MARCH 17TH ________

...Saint Patrick obtain for me grace, to love God with my whole heart, to serve him with my whole strength, and to persevere in good purposes to the end… ________

Novenas are usually prayed for nine days, ending on the day before the Feast day of the Saint.

*Blessed Saint Patrick, glorious Apostle of Ireland, who didst become a friend and father to me for ages before my birth, hear my prayer and accept, for God, the sentiments of gratitude and veneration with which my heart is filled.

Through thee I have inherited that faith which is dearer than life.

I now make thee the representative of my thanks, and the mediator of my homage to Almighty God.

Most holy Father and patron of my country, despise not my weakness; remember that the cries of little children were the sounds that rose, like a mysterious voice from heaven, and invited thee to come amongst us.

Listen, then, to my humble supplication; may my hope be animated by the patronage and intercession of our forefathers, who now enjoy eternal bliss and owe their salvation, under God, to thy courage and charity.

Obtain for me grace to love God with my whole heart, to serve him with my whole strength, and to persevere in good purposes to the end, O faithful shepherd of the Irish flock, who wouldst have laid down a thousand lives to save one soul, take my soul, and the souls of my countrymen under thy special care.

Be a father to the Church of Ireland and her faithful people.

Grant that, as our ancestors of old had learned, under thy guidance, to unite science with virtue, we too, may learn, under thy patronage, to consecrate all Christian duty to the glory of God.

I commend to thee my native land, which was so dear to thee while on earth.

Protect it still, and, above all, direct its chief pastors, particularly those who teach us.

Give them grace to walk in thy footsteps, to nurture the flock with the word of life and the bread of salvation, and to lead the heirs of the Saints thou has formed to the possession of that glory which they, with Thee, enjoy in the kingdom of the Blessed: through Christ Jesus, our Lord. Amen

(mention your request)

V. Pray for us, O glorious Saint Patrick. R. And obtain for us the intention of this Novena

3 Our Fathers - [Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.],

3 Aves - [Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.],

3 Glory Be’s - [Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.]. ________

A Bit about Saint Patrick

It is known that St. Patrick was born in Britain to wealthy parents near the end of the fourth century. He is believed to have died on March 17, around 460 a.d. Although his father was a Christian deacon, it has been suggested that he probably took on the role because of tax incentives and there is no evidence that Patrick came from a particularly religious family. At the age of sixteen, Patrick was taken prisoner by a group of Irish raiders who were attacking his family’s estate. They transported him to Ireland where he spent six years in captivity. (There is some dispute over where this captivity took place. Although many believe he was taken to live in Mount Slemish in County Antrim, it is more likely that he was held in County Mayo near Killala.) During this time he worked as a shepherd, outdoors and away from people. Lonely and afraid, he turned to his religion for solace, becoming a devout Christian. (It is also believed that Patrick first began to dream of converting the Irish people to Christianity during his captivity)

After more than six years as a prisoner, Patrick escaped. According to his writings, a voice-which he believed to be God’s-spoke to him in a dream, telling him it was time to leave Ireland.

To do so, Patrick walked nearly 200 miles from County Mayo, where it is believed he was held, to the Irish coast. After escaping to Britain, Patrick reported that he experienced a second revelation - an angel in a dream tells him to return to Ireland as a missionary. Soon after Patrick began religious training, a course of study that lasted more than fifteen years. After his ordination as a priest, he was sent to Ireland with a dual mission-to minister to Christians already living in Ireland and to begin to convert the Irish. (Interestingly, this mission contradicts the widely held notion that Patrick introduced Christianity to Ireland.)

Familiar with the Irish language and culture, Patrick chose to incorporate traditional ritual into his lessons of Christianity instead of attempting to eradicate native Irish beliefs. For instance, he used bonfires to celebrate Easter since the Irish were used to honoring their gods with fire. He also superimposed a sun, a powerful Irish symbol, onto the Christian cross to create what is now called a Celtic cross, so that veneration of the symbol would seem more natural to the Irish. ________

Saint Patrick’s Day

Saint Patrick’s Day is named after the most commonly recognized of the patron saints of Ireland. It began as a purely Catholic holiday and became an official feast day in the early 17th century. Irish folklore tells that one of his teaching methods included using the shamrock to explain the Christian doctrine of the Trinity to the Irish people.

Wearing of the Green

Originally, the color associated with Saint Patrick was blue. Over the years the color green and its association with Saint Patrick’s day grew. Green ribbons and shamrocks, a three-leaved plant, to explain the Holy Trinity to the pagan Irish, and the wearing and display of shamrocks and shamrock-inspired designs have become a ubiquitous feature of the day. In the 1798 rebellion, in hopes of making a political statement, Irish soldiers wore full green uniforms on 17 March in hopes of catching public attention. The phrase "the wearing of the green", meaning to wear a shamrock on one’s clothing, derives from a song of the same name.

In Ireland

Saint Patrick’s feast day, as a kind of national day, was already being celebrated by the Irish in Europe in the ninth and tenth centuries. In later times he become more and more widely known as the patron of Ireland. Saint Patrick’s feast day was finally placed on the universal liturgical calendar in the Catholic Church due to the influence of Waterford-born Franciscan scholar Luke Wadding in the early 1600s. Saint Patrick’s Day thus became a holy day of obligation for Roman Catholics in Ireland. The church calendar avoids the observance of saints’ feasts during certain solemnities, moving the saint’s day to a time outside those periods. Saint Patrick’s Day is occasionally affected by this requirement, when 17 March falls during Holy Week. This happened in 1940, when Saint Patrick’s Day was observed on 3 April in order to avoid it coinciding with Palm Sunday, and again in 2008, where it was officially observed on 14 March (15 March being used for St. Joseph, which had to be moved from March 19), although the secular celebration still took place on 17 March. Saint Patrick’s Day will not fall within Holy Week again until 2160.

In the United States

Irish Society of Boston organized what was not only the first St. Patrick’s Day Parade in the colonies but the first recorded St. Patrick’s Day Parade in the world on 18 March 1737. (The first parade in Ireland did not occur until 1931 in Dublin.) This parade in Boston involved Irish immigrant workers marching to make a political statement about how they were not happy with their low social status and their inability to obtain jobs in America. New York’s first St. Patrick’s Day Parade was held on 17 March 1762 by Irish soldiers in the British Army. ________

Click below for:

Novena Pamphlet TO SAINT PATRICK

https://docs.wixstatic.com/ugd/a84285_804c18dc6ab64f2ab2cc5e15e01b904d.pdf

All Novena Pamphlets

https://www.pamphletstoinspire.com/novenas

[bibleteachingbyolga]

John Newton — of “Amazing Grace” fame — once shrewdly wrote to a correspondent that a misunderstanding of the law of God lies at the root of most mistakes in the Christian life. Many of the spiritual masters have agreed with him. That explains why as much as 30–40 percent of the Reformed catechisms are devoted to an exposition of the Ten Commandments.

What did they understand that we fail to grasp? Much. And hearing the law through their ears will help us greatly as we consider the first commandment of the Ten: “You shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:3).

Sinai’s Background

We can sketch a Reformed understanding of the law under six headings:

The law is rooted in the covenant-making and covenant-keeping character of Yahweh. It is prefaced by the words “I am the Lord your God” (Exodus 20:2). It is a summons to reflect his moral glory.

The law was given in the context of God’s redeeming grace: “. . . who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Exodus 20:2) — the event that typified the “exodus” that Jesus would accomplish at Jerusalem (Luke 9:31).

The negative form in which most of the commandments come is designed for the safety of immature sinners — in the same way we tell our very young children, “Don’t do that” long before we explain our instructions in detail.

The commands that forbid any action imply the responsibility to express their opposite. Jesus made this clear in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:17–48), but it was already present in the old covenant: for example, Exodus 20:3 is expressed in positive form in Deuteronomy 6:5.

The more we appreciate how wonderful the grace of God is, the more we will embrace the all-demanding nature of his law. The stronger the indicative, the more demanding the imperative it can bear! Consider, then, a biblical health warning: strong indicatives with weak imperatives produce spiritual weakness.

The wisdom of the commandments lies in the fact that they express (yes, briefly and in negative form since we are sinners) what we were created to be — men and women made as the image of God to reflect his glory. In that sense, the so-called “third use of the law,” by which we use the law to guide our lives, was originally its first use.

Against this background, Exodus 20:3, “You shall have no other gods before me,” is not only the first but the greatest commandment. All the others follow from it. Without conformity to this commandment, obedience to the other nine is impossible.

But didn’t Jesus say that the greatest commandment was to love the Lord with heart, soul, mind, and strength (Mark 12:30)? Indeed, but as Deuteronomy chapters 5 and 6 suggest, those words are simply the positive exposition of Exodus 20:3, and an illustration of point 4 above.

Our Dearest Idols

It should not surprise us, then, to discover — about others, or about ourselves — that as the first and greatest commandment, it is also the first to be broken. That was true in Eden, where Adam and Eve gave priority to the snake’s false interpretation of reality and made him “the god of this world” (2 Corinthians 4:4). It was also true at Sinai, where the liturgy of the golden calf was introduced. The closing words of John’s first letter (“Little children, keep yourselves from idols,” 1 John 5:21) suggest that there is as real a danger for Christians at the foot of Mount Calvary as there was for the Israelites at the foot of Mount Sinai.

Our idols do not need to be forged from earrings to constitute a spiritual danger to us. They appear whenever we exchange “the glory of the immortal God” for anything in the created order (Romans 1:23). That is why Ezekiel’s unique turn of phrase is as apt a description of the earlier Israelites, and alas of ourselves, as it was of his contemporaries. He spoke of those who set up idols “into their hearts” (Ezekiel 14:3–7). Was it this that prompted Calvin’s pointed comment that “man’s nature, so to speak, is a perpetual factory of idols” (Institutes, 1.11.8)?

It is clear enough in our Lord’s teaching that it is not only crass things that can usurp our first devotion. The higher the position something occupies on the scale of divine blessing, the more subtle the temptation to worship it. And so, Jesus warns us pointedly, if any man “does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26). These relations are God’s greatest natural blessings. And we should not fail to notice the sixfold and. It is not a matter of three out of six being the pass mark. All must be “hated” (Jesus’s word, not mine) if we are to be his. Is there, perhaps, an echo here of the sobering words describing the judgment on idolatry in Deuteronomy 13:6–9? Newton’s friend William Cowper was right, then, to pray,

The dearest idol I have known, Whate’er that idol be, Help me to tear it from thy throne, And worship only thee.

He knew it was the only way to the “closer walk with God” he so desired. He also understood better than we moderns tend to that this rigorous, almost violent approach is in fact the grace-way of the new covenant: “The grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation . . . training us to renounce ungodliness” (Titus 2:11–12). Grace, in this sense, is a killer.

‘Before My Face’

We like to be able to “tick the boxes.” But any checklist of the ways in which we can have other gods today is bound to fail. Nevertheless, built into the language in which this first commandment is expressed is a kind of litmus test that helps us to detect the presence of the other-gods-before-God disease (at least, so it seems to me). The litmus paper can be seen to an extent in our English translations. Clearly the words “you shall have no other gods before me” do not imply that they can be tolerated so long as they have a lower priority. But the Hebrew expression is more forceful. It means, literally, “before my face” — “You shall have no other gods before my face!”

Perhaps significantly, this is the same expression that is used of Adam and Eve when they had worshiped lesser gods: they “hid themselves from the presence [from the face] of the Lord” (Genesis 3:8). Having obscured his face by bringing other gods closer to their spiritual vision, they could no longer bear the thought of seeing that face. This is the poison of having other gods: they not only take priority over our heavenly Father, but they also create an inner antipathy to him that soon becomes a deep-seated hostility.

And anything can be deified. The smallest coin brought near enough to the eye can obscure the entire universe from sight. Anything that tends to obscure our clear vision of God must come under a ban.

Yet, paradoxically, we must resist the instinct to make our assessments by sight. God’s people learn that the only safe sense is hearing, that is, listening to the voice of God in his word, not interpreting reality through the vision of our eyes. Had Eve (Genesis 3:6), and Aaron (Exodus 32:4–6), and Achan (Joshua 7:20–21), and David (2 Samuel 11:2) looked through their ears, matters might have been very different.

Word of Hope and Joy

The first commandment is intended to be a major help to us. The Christian life is a perpetual roller-coaster of discovering our sin and the remnants of our devotion to lesser gods, leading to a fresh seeking of Christ’s pardon and power, and then on to a rediscovering that our idolatries run deeper into our being than we formerly suspected, so that we seek Christ’s grace more — and on and on. We need perseverance in the pursuit of godliness. So, lest we be discouraged, it is important to notice the word of hope and joy that is embedded in Exodus 20:3.

We refer — rightly so — to the Ten Commandments. But the Bible calls them, literally, the Ten Words. True, they enshrine commandments, as we have seen. But they also contain a word of promise and grace, even a word of prophecy. Written into the imperative we hear a glorious indicative: you shall have no other gods before him! In Christ, and through the Spirit, this has already become true (Romans 8:3–4). Before his face, we can already say when he asks us, “Do you love me more than these?” “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you” (John 21:15–17).

And there is more. For one day, we will see him face to face and be like him. “And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure” (1 John 3:2–3).

Mentioned by Name

James Fisher (1697–1775), in his once-popular eponymous catechism, asks the question, “Why do this, and other commands, run in the second-person singular, thou and not in the plural, you or ye?” His answer? “To signify that God would have us take his commandments as spoken to each of us in particular as if we were mentioned by name.”

“You shall have no other gods before me” — it would not be such a bad idea to print out these words on a small card, insert your own name, and refer to it frequently, would it?